Random Bites
by Nightsfury
Summary: Just some random ficlets that float up from my subconscious from time to time. Not all heroes carry a sword.
1. At First Sight

_This was written in response to a weekly challenge at dao challenge over at live journal. Jus a bit of fluff about some backstory for the city elf's character in the Origin's game. Enjoy._

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Cyrion had never believed in love at first sight. How could two people who had never before laid eyes on one another, didn't know each other from a fish in the market stall, fall deeply and irrevocably in love from just a glance? Foolish notion, made up by bards and story tellers to coax a few hard-earned coins from a man's pockets.

Then he saw Adia, standing in a shaft of sunlight in front of a baker's stall, poking at the day-old bread. Her hair fell over her shoulders in a mass of russet and amber waves. He'd heard the stories of her fierceness, brave and bright as brass, never looking away from a human's eyes, never backing down or giving way. Curiosity drew him in for a closer look at this exotic creature.

She glanced up when his shadow fell across the raisin pastries. His breath caught and his heart quickened when eyes as grey as a storm-covered sea caught him and pulled him into their depths. Flecked with turquoise, like bits of sky seen through breaks in the clouds, he thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful.

He was lost, fully and completely, in the soft flames that burned in the back of her eyes. She smiled. And then he knew, sure as sunrise, he was in love.


	2. Necessary Evil

_There's something tragic about Loghain, a man trying to do the right thing. Yet going about it in a way that seems to violate all those principles he fought for, so long ago. _

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Even in summer, a fire burned in the hearth. Crackling flames always reminded Loghain of better times, simpler times, when he and Maric had fought side by side to rid Ferelden of the Orlesians who'd infested it like a plague of fleas on a war hound. But had those times really been simpler? Or had it just seemed that way because the goal had been so clear and noble – throwing off the yoke of Orlesian repression.

He'd been younger, too. And things always seemed so clear and obvious to the young. Life tempered that innocence, and if a man was lucky, he came out of that tempering without too many regrets and scars. They couldn't be avoided, and only a fool tried to escape them.

The path of duty had certainly been more clear-cut, the enemy easily recognized. Now…now it was hard to tell who was truly friend, and who was just looking out for their own interest. While his duty was still clear, though, the path to accomplishing it was clouded with ambiguities.

Loghain grimaced at the bitter taste of ale in his cup. At one time, after dragging himself back from battle, it would have tasted sweet as rain-water. It would have soothed his throat, not burned down it like winter's last blow. Now, the taste only served to remind him of the bitter choices he made in the name of duty.

Maric had invited the Wardens back into Ferelden, after they'd been kicked out. As Warriors who pledged their allegiance, not to a king, but to a cause; how far could such men be trusted? They fought with bravery and cunning. Fought to defend Ferelden and her people. He would grant them that. And even if the Wardens had manufactured the threat of an Arch-demon, he wouldn't fault their courage or their skill. But he was bloody well going to win this war against the Darkspawn without the damned Orlesians.

Why couldn't Cailan have seen that? How could he not understand that the Grey Wardens he so idolized betrayed Ferelden in their bid to bring in the Orlesian faction. His hand tightened on his cup. You did not invite the viper back into the nest after you cast it out. The river Dane had run red on the day of victory. He would not, could not, see the sacrifices of so many be for nothing.

He swallowed a mouthful of ale. The cries of the dying Wardens and the shrieks of the Darkspawn still echoed in his dreams. His forces might have turned the tide to victory. Or they might have gone down in bitter defeat. Withdrawing them, he knew they would survive to fight again.

"Bloody fool," he muttered, clenching his cup and thinking of Cailan. Poor man-child, raised on stories of heroes, wanting to be like them, wanting to wreathe his name in glory, but never understanding the price that glory demanded.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind him, followed by another set, light as blood dripping from a wound.

"My lord, there is still the matter of these last two Wardens to attend to," Howe said behind him.

Loghain turned from the fire. Maker, how he hated the sound of Howe's voice these days. Always scheming, that one. But clever and skilled, he'd earned his place, even if no one wanted him there.

"I have taken the liberty of hiring some outside assistance," Howe said.

An elf, all gold smiles and liquid grace, glided forward and bowed.

"The Antivan Crows send their regards."

Fine leather armor, sword, and a dagger with a cross-guard of black feathers; Loghain's eyes measured him, judged him skilled from the way he moved, the way his weight shifted forward and his hands stayed close enough to his weapons for an easy pull but far enough way not to seem a threat. How had it come to this? How had he sunk to the point of hiring-

"-an assassin?" Loghain couldn't quite keep the contempt out of his voice. Howe flinched, just a little, and he took a perverse satisfaction in it.

"We can't afford any mistakes. And I've been assured they are the best."

"And the most expensive," the elf said, smiling.

Arrogant and smooth, that voice. A foreigner. Loghain didn't doubt the assassin's skill. Howe would have made sure of that.

Loghain turned back to the fire and stared into the flames. Get rid of the last two Wardens and he eliminated any chance that the Orlesians would be called back. If the price for that was a bit of pride, a bit of his soul. Well, at least he still had some left to give away.

Loghain drained his cup. "Just get it done."

From the side of vision, he saw Howe's smirk of satisfaction. The elf hesitated just a heartbeat. Howe waved a hand, dismissing the man. The assassin bowed, his smile never wavering, and then glided out of the room.

Whether Howe lingered or left with the assassin, Loghain never noticed. And he wouldn't have cared if he did.

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_Please let me know what you think. Comments/feedback are always welcome._


	3. First Kiss

_The following was done in response to a dao_lightning round challenge using the word 'kiss.'; expanded a bit and edited. Enjoy._

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Zevran was supposed to be practicing his forms. Thrust, parry, repeat. Thrust, parry, thrust, repeat. He moved from the first to the second; then at the beginning of the third, he stopped and sighed. Maker, this was boring.

He glanced around the practice yard, empty but for him at the moment. Late in the afternoon, the pale sandstone gleamed gold in the sun. Like the autumn hills beyond the edge of the city. Spring green quickly faded to dun yellow under Antiva's withering summer heat. But in the early evening, ah, how the hills glowed, shifting to a deep red-gold against a sapphire sky just before sunset. Soon the rains would start, and the days would be drenched in silver and cool gray clouds, a welcome change from the often brutal heat of mid-summer. But the hills would be hidden in the mist kicked up by the hard driving rain.

He started again, from the beginning, then stopped and swung his blades in frustration. Maker, he understood the need to practice, but why wasn't there time to just… play? He glanced again at the wall, and then around the yard. Why not? He'd been on the good side of his current Master for almost a month now. He could afford a small slip. And if he was clever and quick enough - and he almost always was- the Master would never even know he'd been gone for an hour or so.

Striding over to the wall, he sheathed his weapons, crouched down then jumped, extending his body. He stifled the whoop of joy when his hands closed firmly over the edge of the wall on the first attempt. He scrambled up, and then over the wall and dropped down onto an apple barrel directly beneath him.

Jumping to the cobblestone street, he grinned and glanced at the narrow ally that led to the top of a tall hill where an abandoned house gave a fine view of the hills surrounding the city. He sauntered toward the entrance, congratulating himself, when a slender form slipped out of a deep shadow tucked just inside the alley entrance.

"You won't get away with it," the female elf, about his age, said.

Startled, he backed up a step, drawing his blades at the same time. He blinked. Hers were already in her hands. Maker, she was fast. He waved his dagger at her.

"Oh, are you planning on telling them?" She looked familiar. Ah, the Master's new apprentice, though he didn't know her name. She was probably looking to make a name in her first days here. She wouldn't be the first.

She grinned, and despite the sharp tips of her daggers glinting in his direction, he couldn't help but notice her eyes were the blue-green of the harbor at mid-day.

"I might be persuaded to hold my tongue…for a price."

He considered a moment, and then shrugged. Favor for favor was standard practice between apprentices who had little coin.

"What did you have in mind?"

She glided forward, sheathing her blades, and he noticed the chestnut highlights in her dark hair, the way her breasts moved gently under her shirt. She came very close and he felt the first flickers of desire.

A kiss."

He blinked. "That's all? A kiss? Not all my worldly goods, such as they are? No favors?" Maker, it couldn't be that simple.

She smiled. "Just a kiss."

He smiled and sheathed his blades. Well, that was easy enough. But he hadn't counted on her lips being so soft or the way her tongue moved gently against his. Then suddenly, she bit his bottom lip and he grunted, shoving her back.

She laughed, like wind chimes, and skipped away. Feeling his lower lip to make sure she hadn't drawn blood, he caught only part of what she said. Something about serpents lying in wait…and being careful.

"Who are you?" he called out to her retreating form.

She paused at the entrance to the alley and turned, her figure limed in the gold of the late afternoon sun. His heart did an unexpected skip.

"Rinna," she said, before slipping back into the shadows.

Rinna. He would remember that name, he thought, climbing back over the wall.


	4. Peace Offering

_Thanks to those who've added these offerings to favorite/alert status, and especially to those who've added me to favorite author. I really appreciate your support._

_To all who've visited these bits that have fallen out of my subconscious, thank you. __This little piece of fluff was written for the dao_challenge lightning round 'love triangle' and was edited a bit before posting here. Enjoy!_

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The bright morning sun stabbed into his closed eyes, prodding Anders into waking. Sprawled on his back, he growled and dragged the pillow over his face. Maker, what had he been thinking last night, getting into a drinking contest with a dwarf? And Oghren, at that. At least he'd been able to exclude dwarven ale from the list of potable beverages.

He turned away from the window, trying to ignore the pounding in his head and the dry gravel feel of his mouth. Habit made him reach out for her. He groped through the soft linen sheets, searching for her familiar warmth. Nothing.

Dragging his eyes open, he regarded the space where she'd laid beside him every night since that first one. Damn. He could guess where she was. He'd come back late, of course, leaving her alone all night. So, when he'd finally returned, she'd left in a snit, not making a sound. Just giving him one of _those_ looks. And where had she'd learn to do that? Looking so pissed off and so elegant at the same time as she glided away from him, staying just out of the range of his groping fingers.

He knew where she was, where she always went when she wanted a bit of sympathy. His rival for her affections from time to time. He groaned and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He'd managed to remove his shoes before collapsing onto it last night, but not his clothes. Maker, he hated sleeping in his clothes. He tugged at his robes, trying to straighten them and then gave it up as a lost cause.

Staggering out his door, he squinted against the bright spears of sun interlacing the narrow corridor as he wavered down the hallway. The door at the end, leading to the Warden Commander's bedroom was pushed aside, though not enough to see into the room.

Cautiously, he pushed the door wider and found her, curled up against the dozing Mabari's broad chest.

"Pounce?" he called softly.

She looked up, her tail flicking up then undulating down, in a gray liquid wave of feline irritation.

"I'm sorry." He crouched down, groping in the pocket of his robe for some tidbit he vaguely remembered stuffing into it as a possible peace offering. He found it and held it out to her.

Her nose twitched, and then she darted forward and took it delicately from his fingers. Apology accepted.


	5. Holiday

_To all of those who've added this series to their favorites/alerts, many thanks. This author greatly appreciates your support._

_Ok, I've been on a bit of fluff kick, lately. Hey, it's summer. Hard to be angsty when it's sunny and warm, and the iced tea is flowing. So here's a short bit of sweetness written for the dao_challenge 'Holiday.' Enjoy!

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The Grand Cleric wouldn't have approved. If she'd known about it. But mage children were still children, and all children needed a holiday from their studies. Especially, on this day, the one set aside to celebrate Ferelden's independence from Orlesian occupation.

Wynne smiled as the tower children chased one another in an impromptu game of tag on the soft grass behind the tower. She was 'base.' And whenever a child ran back and touched her, she would wave her hand in a grand gesture, cloaking them in a soft blue light, declaring them safe.

_I don't understand this game_, the spirit inside her said. _What is it for?_

"Fun," Wynne murmured.

_Fun? What is that?_

Oh, dear, how to explain. "This is a holiday. A celebration. A time for fun…to enjoy life."

_Ah, I think I understand. Is this why you accepted my offer? So, you could keep having fun?_

"In part. I also had a duty to keep, work left unfinished."

It felt like the spirit was tilting its head and studying her. _Work never seems to be finished. Is fun?_

Wynne laughed and since Bryce had just made a funny face at Ellie, no one thought anything amiss.

"No, I don't think so. Don't spirits ever have fun?"

She felt the spirit smile. _I do now._

Wynne laughed. Then the children, their cheeks rosy from running, came up and took her hands, pulling her over to the table so she could cut the celebration cake.


	6. That Which Endures

_Sometimes, images linger in your mind, take root and grow in unexpected ways. That's how this story came about. _

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Not one of them could remember how they had become trapped in the deep places of the earth, shut away from the warmth of the sun and the cool light of the moon. They had been gone so long they could not remember the smell of the wind running across the open sea, or drifting through spring leaves, or across a meadow of late summer flowers. They had forgotten the sharp clear taste of a winter dawn or how the starlight sparkled on new-fallen snow.

The Old Gods spirits prowled the Fade, looking for a way out, a way back to the mortal realm. Perhaps the path lay through the Golden City that hovered always on the far edge of the Fade. But even the spirits native to that realm skittered away from it, never going near. And like those spirits, the Old Gods found the way to the City barred to them. Other spirits, the souls of mortals, wandered freely through the ever-shifting realms of the Fade. But most drifted from one hazy dream image to the next, caught up in their own illusions. A few shone brightly, like a beacon. Their clear-eyed gaze found the Old Gods, and beckoned to them.

These souls came with a hunger for power, for the primal magic of fire and ice, creation and decay, healing and spirit, and strongest of all, blood. These bright spirits promised freedom in exchange for knowledge.

"Give us the keys to your magic and we will find a way to the Golden City and the way back to the sky," they promised.

So, the Old Gods consulted among themselves. One, Urthemial, dragon of beauty, didn't trust the mortals to keep their bargain. He heard disharmony in their voices, an off-key chord at odds with their smooth tones and silken words.

"No matter how much they learn, we will always be more powerful than they," Dumat, first and strongest among the old ones, said. "Are we not gods?"

"Imprisoned gods, while they walk free," Urthemial muttered to himself.

"Don't you miss the sky?" Lusacan, dragon of night, asked. "And riding the winds that carry the red blush of evening along the rim of the earth?"

Urthemial didn't answer. Anything he said would be twisted by Zazikel, dragon of chaos. While the others discussed the proposition, the dragon of beauty eased away from them and decided to keep what secrets he knew of magic to himself. He doubted the mortals who craved power would miss them. The precepts of harmony and balance had little place in the schemes of those who wanted domination and mastery.

One by one, the Old Gods yielded up their secrets. The mortals gathered them up like sweet summer fruits and devoured them. To Urthemial's surprise, the mages did keep their bargain. But, what followed next, when the human mages attempted to enter the Golden City, none of them expected. It began as a faint tremor, rippling across the dreamers and their illusions, growing stronger till even those caught in the deepest dreams turned their eyes in the direction of the city. It wavered, the outline of distant buildings warping and shifting, rippling with black light.

A balance had been disturbed, Urthemial knew. He felt it in the shifting fabric of the Fade, like a tight drawn cloth being twisted and warped, pulling apart first at the weakest strands. Black light shot out from the city, lightning streaks of dark corrupting magic, twisting everything they touched.

The old gods fled back to their sleeping forms and burrowed deeper into the earth, seeking to escape the spreading corruption by hiding in the bones of the world. The mages, vile and twisted versions of what they once were, sought them out. While everything else they been was wiped away, they remembered their promises of freedom. And one by one, they and their descendents led the old gods back to the surface. Dumat went first, and after almost two hundred years, was slain. Zazikel, dragon of chaos, lasted only ninety years. But, true to his name, he laid waste a city in his anguish. Toth, dragon of fire, met death after only fifteen years. And sweet Andoral, dragon of chains and closest friend to Urthemial, perished after barely twelve.

Urthemial sighed, mourned lost friends and his own coming end. He felt the Darkspawn coming, smelled the stench of their twisted dreams and pride flowing through the earth to find him. Already, the edges of it swirled around his form, turning ruby-scales the color of clotted blood. It seeped into his bones, marring perfect lines of symmetry, though traces of grace and beauty would remain. Through that first corruption, he felt others, not Darkspawn. Only a few, they also bore the taint, his doom and his salvation.

But before the darkness claimed him fully, and his mind became ravaged with thoughts of death, he wanted one last act that spoke of everything he had been and might one day be again.

In the darkness, he summoned the shreds of his strength and the tatters of his magic yet uncorrupted. Gathered together, in a tight furled ball, he sent this last piece of himself skipping through the cracks in the earth, following a line of Darkspawn to the surface. For a moment, he despaired, their presence soaked through everything. He sensed a break, plunged through it, and behind a stout stone building he found his opportunity.

_How appropriate,_ he thought, as his will slipped into a gnarled and twisted bush brushed by the first light of dawn. Brittle and neglected in a dusty garden corner, a trace of life stubbornly lingered in one branch. These flowers had always been his favorite offering.

His magic took root, and then blossomed into a single perfect rose. Just before the Darkspawn claimed him fully, he sensed someone enter the garden, felt the start of surprise and awe, and the stirring of hope. And even as he tumbled deep into the darkness of his own mind and soul, the image of the rose remained.


	7. The Morning After

_For those of you who've reviewed and added this to favs/alerts, many thanks. Your support and comments are much appreciated. I always enjoy seeing what people pick up on in these pieces._

_The following very short piece was written in response for the dao_challenge lightning round prompt 'The morning after'. For lack of a better title, this is called 'The Morning After.' Enjoy!_

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Late autumn rain skittered across the diamond pane window in his small office. The storm came out of the north, so it brought cold winds and ice gathered in the wedge-shaped corners of the glass. Gregoir smiled as he sipped his morning tea while he watched the wind whipping up white capped waves on the lake below. Nothing like being inside, snug and warm, with a fire to warm your backside while autumn bled into winter outside.

Last night's Harrowing had ended well. An unusually short rite, but Anders had come through in fine form. Though the man had a knack for finding ways out of the tower –four, at last count - he wasn't really a bad sort. He'd probably wake up sometime late this afternoon, groggy with the aftereffects of lyrium and ready to raid the tower larder. Gregoir wondered just where Irving was going to put him. It was getting a bit crowded in the new mages wing.

"Enter," Gregoir said to the knock on his door.

The young templar who entered had just taken his vows, and still in awe of his Commander, he shifted from foot to foot, nervous as a new-born colt.

"_Ser_, it's…it's…" He stopped and swallowed, going two shades paler, his hands clenching in his skirts.

Gregoir smiled encouragingly. "Yes, _ser_ Allen. What is it?"

"It's Anders, _ser_. He's gone…again."


	8. Wedding Day

_Many thanks to those who've added these small offerings to favs/alerts. Herein, for your entertainment is another brief look into Cyrion and Adaias' life, courtesy of the latest dao lightning round challenge 'Elves.' _

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Cyrion smiled at the small gold band nestled in the palm of his hand. The date was set and the permit had been issued. Only one more thing, not absolutely required, remained to be done.

His brother, Dalna, sitting at his kitchen table with a mug of hot tea, frowned.

"Are you sure about this? Adaia is…well, I suppose some would say 'spirited.'

Cyrion glanced up, his hand closing around the ring. "Say what you mean."

Dalna drew in a deep breath and leaned forward. "She takes too many chances with the humans. Draws too much attention to herself."

"I love her," Cyrion said, in a tone that implied that this matter should already be settled between them.

His brother ran a hand across his face. "I know, but…Mira is due any day now. Maker knows I'm grateful that Adaia's skills as a mid-wife have helped her keep this child. It's just…" He let his hand fall, his face. "I don't want anything to happen to you, either. You know how the humans get. One elf causes problems and they haul the lot of us in. Sometimes, those they arrest…don't come back."

Cyrion's hand closed around his brother's wrist. How to tell him Adaia filled up his heart and soul in a way he'd never expected another person could do. How, when she smiled at him, his heart did little skips, and when he looked in those storm-gray eyes, he saw himself reflected in their depths. When he kissed her, Ah, Maker, how grateful he was that of all the men in the alienage, she had chosen him to walk beside her through whatever joy and sorrow life might bring.

He wasn't a bard. He had no skill with words. All he could think to say was, "I love her, brother."

Dalna sighed. "Maker, you're as stubborn as always. I suppose in that, you're well matched." Then he smiled. "All right…you have my blessing. Maker knows, you're going to need it."


	9. Memories

_The following was written in response to the dao_challenge lightning round 'templars.' I edited and expanded it a bit from the original piece. I'd been wanting to do something with the two templars in front of the chantry doors in Denerim for a while, and the challenge helped to kick-start the idea. I couldn't remember if they were named, and my play-throughs where I might have been able to find out weren't available.  
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_Many thanks to those who've reviewed and all you lurkers out there. I hope you've enjoyed reading them as much as I've enjoyed writing them.  
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Aiden gently pulled the gauntlets out of Royce's hands and put them back on his battered bedroom dresser. The old templar peered at him, then at the gauntlets.

"I…I need those. We're on duty."

"We've just finished our turn guarding the Chantry doors. Remember?" Aiden motioned toward the setting sun, round and red as a ripe apple, sitting just above the horizon, flooding Denerim's harbor with rosy light.

Royce wandered over to his open window and stared out over the harbor. "But…it's sunrise, isn't it? The sun is red in the early morning, too."

The young soon-to-be templar eased up beside him. "No, that's the western sky, Ser Royce." He pointed to the far end of the deep harbor where a lighthouse sat perched at the end of a long peninsula. "That's Andraste's Light, on the western side of the bay."

Royce smiled, like a child who'd just discovered a new treat. "Yes, I remember when it was built."

Aiden suppressed a sigh and a surge of anger at what the priests did in the name of faith. The lighthouse had been built long before Royce was born. In his lyrium-addled mind, all the dates ran together, melted into one another like run-off in a spring thaw, clear strands mixing with muddy rivulets.

The older templar kept smiling, chatting about the lighthouse while Royce rubbed his forehead, not even half-listening to a tale he'd heard many times before.

It wasn't fair. A lifetime of faithful service and how was _ser_ Royce rewarded for it? With a tiny room tucked away in a corner of the chantry building and a mind as fragile as stale bread. Barely in his late fifties, he had grown more confused every day as his memories crumbled away. Aiden had never wanted wealth, but a man should be able to have some dignity as he moved into the winter years of his life.

He touched Royce on the shoulder when the older templar suddenly stopped talking, shaking his head. "Come, it's dinner time. Let's get you something to eat, all right? Then if you want, I'll read to you."

Royce patted his arm. "You're good to me…like a son." He peered close at Aiden. "Are you my son? I have a son…had a son." He shook his head. "So long ago, now. I remember…when they took him away…in the tower. Didn't even let her hold him."

"Come," Aiden said, gently guiding him with a hand on Royce's elbow. He'd heard this story a dozen times since he'd been assigned to care for the older man.

"Such pretty eyes she had…blue like yours. And a healer." Royce paused in the doorway, looking at his feet, confused. "What was her name?" He looked up at Aiden. "Do you know her name?" His chin trembled.

"Wendolyn, I think you said. Or something like that."

Royce frowned, and then smiled, like a stray beam of sunlight leaking through a heavy layer of clouds. "Wynne. It was Wynne."


	10. Heat Wave

_Just a little piece of fluff (expanded and edited a bit) written for the dao_challenge 'Heat.' Enjoy!_

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Fat and red, the sun slowly slipped towards the horizon. Even this early in the evening, the air shimmered above the flat rocks lining the river bank. Zevran grinned and stretched, enjoying the heat flowing down his skin and soaking into his bones. After what passed for spring here in Ferelden, the weather had finally fallen into something resembling summer. The assassin glanced behind him.

His warden, stripped to the waist, -always a pleasant sight- lounged in the shade of an oak tree, his hand resting on his mabari's shoulder. Alistair sprawled near the remnants of the campfire, fanning himself with a piece of polishing cloth, groaning about the heat. Wynne and Leli sat on a rock, their feet immersed in the cool stream. Zevran didn't see Morrigan. Maybe she had transformed into a fish. Sten sat, stiff and straight, on a fragment of log, sweat beading up on his forehead then snaking down the side of his cheek.

.His fellow travelers thought this was hot? Compared to Antiva, this was a day in early spring. But his fellow companions, just sprawled around camp, fanning themselves with whatever came to hand, and moaned about the heat.

"It's hot enough to fry an egg," Alistair said.

Zevran grinned. Oh, Maker, that was too good to resist. The assassin wandered over to the wagon and plucked an egg from the basketful they'd purchased from a farmer that morning. He made a show of inspecting the brown and speckled shell then brushing off a flat rock near the remains of their campfire.

Alistair squinted at him "What in the name of the Maker are you doing?"

Zevran pointed to the rock. "Well, you keep complaining about how it's hot enough to fry an egg. So, my dear ex-templar, I just thought I'd test out your theory. I've never seen a rock that hot. Not even in Antiva."

"Not with my breakfast, you don't," Alistair said, and lunged toward the assassin. Zevran skipped back, grinning, the egg held between his thumb and forefinger.

"What? Surely, you don't begrudge one little egg? If it works, you can eat breakfast now. Get an early start to the day, and all."

Alistair groaned. "It's just a saying. Like when you say you could kill someone for…No, wait, bad example."

Zevran chuckled. "Ah, so it-"

"Zevran?" Darrian said behind him.

The assassin turned, grinning. "Yes, my Warden?"

"Just put the egg back, all right?"

Zevran bowed with a flourish. "Your wish is my command, _amora."_

"Maker's breath," Alistair muttered as Zevran turned back around, flicking the egg up into the air then catching it before gently placing it back in the basket.


	11. Fate

_Written for the dao_challenge, 'Fate.'_

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The moon hung low in the sky, tattered strips of clouds floating across its surface, casting faint shadows on the water that lapped against the weathered dock pilings. Settled on the roof, Zevran leaned back against the bakery's chimney and took a long pull on the bottle before handing it off to Taliesin. He watched his fellow assassin from the edge of vision, as the human tilted his head back, taking a long slow sip.

Zevran smiled, letting the brandy warm in his mouth before sliding down his throat.

"Damn, that's good," Taliesin said, handing the bottle back to him.

Zevran chuckled. "I told you she kept an excellent cellar."

The human stretched out a long leg on the slate tiles and grunted. "Well, at least it's some compensation for that hit. Bloody mark didn't know when to die."

"Yes, she was a bit of a challenge, wasn't she?" Zevran arched an elegant brow. "Though, it's not like I didn't warn you about her."

"Next time, you make the hit, and I'll play lookout. You're much better at 'distraction' than I am."

Zevran laughed, and took another pull from the fine blue bottle. "Ah, yes, fortune has been quite kind to me in that regard."

"I thought you didn't believe in fortune."

Zevran held up the brandy. "Hmmm, when it leads to acquiring something as fine as this… I 'm prepared to change my mind."

"And fate? What about that?"

"Ah, now that is another question entirely." Zevran leaned back and gazed up at the moon, his hand curled around the neck of the bottle. "I suppose one could say that the mark's fate led to our fortune."

Taliesin laughed. "It seems to me that contract had something to do with it."

Zevran shrugged, and took another sip before handing the brandy back to his partner. There was some truth in what Taliesin had just said. But without an instrument to carry it out, a contract was just a pretty piece of paper promising the illusion of justice. And there were worse things in life than being an instrument of fate.


	12. Chapter 12

_This first started as a glimmer about Morrigan, then while the story worked itself out, Tam, the mabari from my Two Sides universe, found his way into the story.  
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_"But especially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights, listening to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of the forest, reading signs and sounds as a man may read a book, and seeking for the mysterious something that called - called, waking or sleeping, at all times, for him to come." Jack London, 'The Call o_f the Wild.'

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He loved his current master, as he had loved his former, with most of his heart and whatever genius some long-ago mages had given his kind. But deep in his blood and in the center of his bones, lived a piece of his soul that remembered the shape of the wolf, and the sound of the long wailing call that rode up the starlit sky and set the moon singing.

Tam stood at the edge of the flickering shadows cast by firelight, one ear cocked back. Behind him, the red-furred bard sang softly of men riding horses into battle, and his kind coursing before them. He glanced back and saw his master, sitting with his male-mate, their fingers entwined, and russet hair spilling into gold. The other man, who always smelled of metal polish and uncertainty, sat with his back against a tree, gazing into the fire, his hands still for once. The gray-haired one, about whom the scent of feverfew and mint, roses and fever balm always lingered, already lay sleeping in her tent. The tall, dark one who smelled of battle and unnumbered kills, kept watch on the far side, where the edge of fire-light twined with moon-cast shadows. Sometimes, Tam joined him, adding a sharper pair of ears and a keener nose to sort through the sounds and smells of the wild places. But not tonight. Tonight…tonight, someone else called to him. Someone who understood, better than any here present why the blood sang and the moon called on nights like these.

He slipped into the moon-cast shadows, and nose to ground found her scent easily. She smelled like wild things. Sometimes, like the red deer, heart beating fast and hard as she darted between the trees. At other times, she smelled of the gray softness of wings that sailed the air in silent flight. Strongest of all, she smelled like the piece of him that remembered running down the moon over snow-shrouded hills.

He stepped into the small round circle of light cast by her fire, within sight of the other camp.

"What are you dong here?" she said, frowning. "I've no treats for you to beg." He glanced at the dark forest beyond her and whuffed softly.

"Oh, and do you fancy yourself a wolf?" she said, smiling.

He sat down and cocked his head, his dark eyes intent on hers. He knew what he was in her mind, man-bred and trained, nothing more than an imitation of something fierce and beautiful.

He rose and took a step forward, whuffed again, then glided to the edge of her camp, where the tree shadows waited. Looking back, the flames danced in the dark depths of his eyes. He reached inside and found the ancient song, a long, low rumbling sound like water tumbling down an icy stream, or the wind sifting between the cold mountains.

Her eyes widened in recognition, then she frowned and folded her arms, uncertainty flickering across her face. He called again, a longer song as he edged towards the border of the forest. A smile, sharp as a wolf's tooth, replaced her frown.

He waited, while a golden-eyed and silver-furred wolf glanced back at the fragments of civilized life behind her. Warmth lay there, and meaty bones, and the comfort of a good belly scratching. But this night was meant for the wild things.

She loped past him into the woods, brushing her muzzle across his face as she passed him. Then together, under the moon-glazed leaves, they ran down the moon into morning.


	13. Vigil

Cyrion had always been good at waiting, even when his son had taken his time coming into the world. Through the long hours of labor he'd stayed with Adaia, had held her hand and tried not to wince as she crushed his fingers together when the contractions came. Darrian had timed his arrival with the early hours of the morning, when the moon had set, and only stars had decorated the sky. How small and helpless he'd seemed as Cyrion had bathed him in the warm glow of the fire from the hearth. How his heart had contracted when his son's tiny hand had closed around his finger, gripping it so hard.

Cyrion's hands closed around his arms, clutched tightly against his chest. Had it been only a few minutes since his son and nephew, gripping borrowed weapons, had chased after the _shem_ who'd stolen his niece, Shianni, and the brides? It felt like hours.

Valendrian moved through the crowd, trying to calm the angry and soothe the frightened.

"That spoiled brat of yours is going to get us killed," Elva said. Behind her, some nodded in agreement, while others looked troubled.

"Elva, please. We need to stay calm," Valendrian said.

She rounded on him. "How calm do you think the humans will be when they find elves roaming Denerim castle with swords?"

"What about our women? Vaughn will kill them, like he did the others," someone shouted. Murmurs of agreement sounded behind Cyrion.

"Elva's right. All those two will do is bring on another purge. How many died in the last one?" a woman shouted, stepping forward, her fists clenched as she glared at Cyrion. Those around her regarded him with hard looks and narrowed eyes.

His hands went white-knuckled. _What do you expect me to do,_ he wanted to shout at them. He smelled a riot in their fear, and heard it in the whispered mutterings that ran through the crowd. Oh, Maker, he needed to get out of here before they turned their fear and anger on him.

Valendrian raised his hands. "Please, calm down, everyone. We need to-"

Cyrion turned on his heel and hurried back through the twisting, cobblestone streets. A shadow fell across his door as he reached for the handle.

"Please, may I wait with you?" Duncan said behind him. "I fear my presence only makes it more difficult for Valendrian to restore calm."

Cyrion's hand tightened on the handle, then he nodded and unlocked the door. Tall even for a human, Duncan had to duck to pass through the door.

Making tea for a guest kept Cyrion focused, kept his eyes off the empty scabbard slung across the man's back. Oh, Maker, should he be grateful or frightened for all those hours and days that Adaia had drilled their son? _We don't want to seem like troublemakers, _he'd said only an hour ago. Would Darrian even survive past the first few guards? His hands started shaking and he almost dropped the kettle on the floor.

"Perhaps something a bit stronger?" Duncan said as he pulled a small flask from his pocket, then held it out.

Cyrion almost refused. For courtesy's sake, he accepted the flask and choked down a mouthful of whiskey before handing the flask back, then setting the kettle on the stove. He poked the banked fire into life, adding more wood, then settled in a chair. Duncan sat opposite him, and set the flask on the table between them.

"Did you come for him?" Cyrion asked, his hands clasped before him on the gnarled pine table. "Would you really have taken him from me on his wedding day?"

"He's a brave man," Duncan started to say.

Cyrion looked up. "He's my son." _And all I have left of Adaia. You wanted her too, human. Valendrian told me all those years ago when you came for her. _He kept those words in his heart, though his fingers tightened around one another.

The kettle whistled, and Cyrion rose to tend it.

"Your son is an exceptional man," Duncan said softly. Cyrion looked up, the tea-pot lid in his left hand and the water gurgling in the kettle. "It's a rare person who steps forward the way he did. Who risks his life for another."

Pride and fear curled around one another in his heart as Cyrion poured water into the yellow pot. But in his mind's eye it wasn't the man he saw striding toward the castle with grim determination, but the laughing child who clutched his father's hand as he'd taken his first steps.

Steam curled up from the pot then flattened out as he replaced the lid. There should be those tiny cakes, laced with raisins and sprinkled with chopped walnuts that he always made to go with the tea, shouldn't there? Ah, no, they were down at the reception tables where everyone would have gathered to feast and celebrate after the ceremony.

"If…when he comes back…they'll arrest him," Cyrion said softly.

"He would make a fine Warden. He has courage, and knows how to keep his head."

Cyrion replaced the kettle on the stove before turning around and answering.

"And if he doesn't want to be a Warden?"

"The Wardens have the right of conscription. I can keep him out of the hands of the city guard."

_And either way I lose him. Oh, Adaia, what would you have me choose?_ But he knew the answer to that. She would have told him to choose life. So, he settled at the table and poured tea for both of them.

He'd always been good at waiting. So was the human, it seemed. He sat quietly, not fidgeting or shifting restlessly, just…waiting, as he shared tea with an elf. Darrian would return, only to leave again. And when he did, Cyrion would be waiting for him.


	14. Keeping Score

_Okay, my only excuse for this is that I haven't done anything with Alistair or Ogren, yet. And I wanted to do something fun. Enjoy!_

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Alistair understood the need for practice, he really did. It was one of the few things he'd agreed with in his templar training. Practice, practice, and more practice. It was the only way to ensure you were ready for whatever a mage might throw at you. After all, they could turn into abominations in the blink of an eye. One never knew where a maleficar was hiding. If you weren't ready, well, where did that leave you? A pile of ashes picked up by the wind, or perhaps a pile of frozen meat shards. He tried to suppress a shudder and focus on more pleasant things, like cheese.

He watched; his arms folded as Darrian came in hard after parrying a flurry of overhand blows from Zevran.

Yes, Alistair appreciated the need for practice. So he understood why the two elves retreated to an open area near camp to spar every night before dinner, though this was the first time he'd really watched them. And Maker, they did it with edged steel. Swords were pointy and sharp, even if they did pull their blows. Worse, they sparred stripped down to pants and boots. Not even the thin protection of leather armor between them and every blow they aimed at one another. They moved so bloody fast, too. How did either one even see the other's sword coming, let alone in time to block it and mount a counter-attack?

He winced as a tiny cut blossomed with red beads on his fellow Warden's torso, right below two similar nicks.

"Ah, ha, my Warden, you let your guard slip again."

Darrian grinned and lunged forward, the late afternoon sun setting the flecks of blood on the tip of his sword shimmering. Zevran sported a small cut on his left shoulder, and another at the base of his throat.

Zevran danced back, his blade drawing sparks as his sword slid against Darrian's. Then the assassin lunged forward, twisting his weapons so that Darrian's arms were pushed wide. But instead of backing off or whirling away, Darrian leaned in and Zevran kissed him.

Alistair blinked. Was there tongue involved? He swallowed. Yes, there was definitely tongue. Oh, Maker, he really didn't need to see that. This wasn't sparring. This was some kind of assassin thingy type of foreplay, wasn't it? Maybe he should go?

Oghren belched behind him, and then sidled up, slurping up the contents of a bottle of dwarven ale.

"Damn, that fancy pants elf is fast." He glanced up at Alistair. "So, what's the score this night?"

"Score?" Alistair said with a frown.

Zevran's dagger intercepted Darrian's sword with a ringing chime.

"Yeah, how many times they nick one another?"

"They're keeping count?"

Oghren took another long pull on his ale. "Yup. My bet's usually on fancy pants. Course, your fellow warden's pretty damn good, too. Gave the sodding darkspawn what for the other day, didn't he?"

Alistair tried not to breathe too deeply when Oghren belched again.

"I'm thinking it's gonna be even tonight." Oghren's eyes narrowed as he watched the two elves. "Yeah, definitely even.

"How can you tell?"

Oghren waved the bottle at them. "Golden locks there's been at it longer. But the Warden's a quick study, a natural. They've only been one off each other the past few nights." He smirked and patted the leather purse hanging from his belt. "Care to make a little wager?"

"You want me to bet on how many times they cut one another?" That just sounded…wrong.

"Less you want to bet on something else? Like how many times each night they ride the pony. Think the bard's got that one nailed down. Ain't called it wrong in over two weeks." He took another swig from his bottle. "Figured as long as they were keepin' the rest of us up half the night, might as well get some coin out of it."

Alistair covered his face with his hand. He could feel his ears turning red. "Oh, Maker, you're actually-? How can you tell?" He held up a hand, the other still covering his eyes. "Wait, don't tell me. I don't think I want to know."

"Yeah, there's a lot of sword polishin' between those two. Can't see how you miss it, since your tent's so damn close."

Alistair tried to sound stern. "I'm a gentleman. I don't listen in." Or at least, he tried not to. But sticking his fingers in his ears and humming really didn't help all that much when he _knew_ what was going on.

Oghren shrugged. "Suit yourself. Missing out on some good action, though, Warden."

"Oh, are they still at it?" Leliana asked, gliding up on Alistair's right. She held a small hour glass in her left hand. Alistair blushed again, then realized she meant the sparring. Morrigan joined her a few moments later, her tawny eyes narrowing. Oh, Maker, the witch, too?

"It's time," Leliana sang out, just as Zevran spit out a curse.

The two elves lowered their weapons, both panting from the exercise, both flushed and grinning. The assassin had a tiny cut on his right forearm. Still holding his dagger, he draped his left arm around Darrian's shoulders as they strolled up.

Morrigan eyed both of them. "Even."

"Heh, pay up, bard. That's ten silver you owe me. You, too, witchy eyes."

With a sigh, Leliana dropped the silver into the dwarf's palm, then slipped back to camp. Morrigan dropped a small linen sack of coins on top of Leli's silver.

"'Til next time, dwarf," she said, then sauntered away.

Zevran sheathed his sword, and then held up his right hand.

"I believe you owe us some silver, my fine dwarven friend."

Alistair stared. "Oh, Maker, don't tell me you bet on this to? Isn't that cheating?"

"Not at all, my dear ex-templar. We don't bet, and we fight fair. Besides, if our beer-swilling friend here is going to make a profit off our efforts, why shouldn't we enjoy some of the rewards, too, hmmm?"

Oghren tossed Zevran two silver. "Ten percent, wasn't it, Warden?"

"That sounds about right," Darrian said, his gray eyes gleaming.

"Now, about the profit from that _other _wager," Zevran began.

At that, Alistair twisted around and hurried back to camp. Cheese. Yes, that was what he needed, a nice, thick slab of sharp cheddar. And beer. Definitely beer. He just hoped Oghren hadn't drunk it all.


	15. Legends

_Written for the dragon_age challenge lightning round prompt of 'legendary.' Enjoy! _

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His exploits were the stuff of legend, or so he'd been told by many. At the time, his deeds hadn't seemed that way. At the time, he'd only did what needed to be done. A cliché if ever there was one. That didn't make it any less true.

Loghain stared out the window of his office, waiting for the Warden to come collect him for the Joining. Unexpected mercy from the last person he would ever have thought would show him such. Or perhaps, it wasn't really mercy. Perhaps his death had only been delayed. The Warden had told him what might happen, laid it out in clear, concise words, after escorting the Hero of the River Dane back to his rooms. Loghain had the feeling that imparting that bit of information had violated some Warden protocol. But then, this elf, this man, didn't seem to hold much with protocol. He did what was needed, when it was needed. Loghain could respect that.

Strange, he mused, turning away from the window, then settling back in the hard oak chair behind his desk, to find a kindred spirit in a man he'd viewed as an enemy. Not on a personal level, but to Ferelden. Yet, the Warden risked his life to save her. Not a religious man by inclination, Loghain wondered, briefly, if the Maker had his hand on this one. The Warden had survived the darkspawn at Ostagar, bounty hunters, even that foreign elf assassin Howe had spent so much gold on. He'd rescued the mages in the Circle Tower. Survived the Deep Roads and the bloody intricacies of dwarven politics, giving them a new king. He'd even managed to convince the Dalish to lend their support to fighting the Blight.

Legends would gather around him, making both more and less of his accomplishments. That was the problem with legends, they never told the truth. History was never that easy or that simple, or that grand. History was dirt and blood, sorrow and sacrifice. It wasn't made by those looking to make a name, to become a legend. But history often found those who just did what needed doing.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and Loghain rose. In some ways, it was a relief to leave the burden of legends behind, and begin anew. If Loghain survived this Joining, he would tell the Warden to ignore what others tried to make of his deeds. Let them stand on their own. That should be enough for any man.


	16. Spirits

_The following was inspired by the dao_challenge lightning round prompt, 'Spirit or Spirits', though it took too long to write to qualify for the challenge. Set in my Two Sides universe, it involves Oghren, 'fine dwarven ale', and two unsuspecting elves. Enjoy._

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_Just after dinner, a few of our stalwart band gather round for a friendly drink and a game of cards._

Oghren plopped down on a nearby rock and took a long pull on his ale jug. He squinted against the glint of late afternoon sun off Zevran's fine crystal goblet that held perhaps a finger's worth of amber liquid inside it.

"You call that a drink, elf?"

The assassin relished a small sip. "I call it Antivan brandy." He held up the glass so that a spear of sunlight illuminated the contents. "Made from an excellent vintage pressed from grapes that came from the north side-"

"Oh, sod it, ya' fancy pants elf, can't you ever give a simple answer to a simple question?"

"And where is the fun in that, my dwarven friend, hmmm?"

Darrian chuckled, looking up from inspecting his sword for nicks.

Oghren held up his jug. "Now this is a proper drink for a fightin' man. Fine dwarven ale. It'll put hair on your teeth and take it off yer backside." The dwarf belched. "Or is the other way around? Can't never remember which." He took another long pull from the jug.

Darrian re-sheathed his sword, then placed it on the ground by his feet. Sliding closer, he draped his arm around his lover's shoulders.

"To answer your question, yes, I call this a drink," Zevran said, and savored another small sip.

"Damn, elf, you keep drinkin' like that, we'll be here the whole sodding night before you get around to showing me that card game you're always yappin' about. What is it? Oh, yeah. Wicked Grace." He unhooked the jug from his thumb, and then set it between them.

Zevran chuckled. "Ah, so anxious to lose the few coins in your purse, are you?" He set down his brandy and pulled out a pack of cards from his pocket. "Very well, then, since you insist."

Oghren grinned and tapped the jug. "First, how about a friendly drink? You two can even use that fancy glass."

Zevran gazed at the fine brandy in his glass, then sighed. "Such disrespect for a fine vintage. Ah, well, I suppose such sacrifices are inevitable in the cause of elven-dwarf relationships."

He finished off his glass in one long pull, licking off a drop from the corner of his mouth, then picked up the jug. Black liquid splashed into the glass, enough for a small mouthful for each of them.

"You sure about this, Zev?" Darrian murmured, eyeing the glass.

Zevran set the jug back on the ground, then studied the dark liquid. "It's only ale. How bad can it be?"

* * *

_Sunrise, the following morning-_

"Oh, Maker," Zevran groaned as the early sun pierced through his closed eyes, waking him. Darrian's arms tightened around him, the smooth silky skin of his chest warm against the assassin's. Zevran cracked open an eye, catching a blurry image of leafy green before scrunching his eyes shut and burying his face in his lover's neck. His head throbbed in rhythm with his heart.

"_Amora,_ please don't tell me we're sitting naked in a tree."

Darrian chuckled then winced. "Zev, we're not sitting naked in a tree. _You're _sitting naked. I'm still wearing small clothes."

"That's not fair, you know."

"Please don't make me laugh. My head hurts just from breathing."

"I know something I'd like to hurt," Zevran muttered.

"I did warn you."

Zevran sighed. "_Si, amora, _you did." He felt Darrian shrug.

"It could be worse. You could be up here with Oghren."

A shudder rippled through the assassin. "That was cruel, my Warden."

"Not as cruel as that 'ale'. Oh, Creators, what was that made from?"

"At the moment, I'm more curious as to how we ended up in this tree. The last thing I remember is choking down that vile brew Oghren guzzles like water." He lifted his head and risked opening an eye. Since the stabbing pain seemed less, he opened both of them. "You don't happen to remember, do you, _amora?"_

Darrian rubbed the side of his head. "I remember something about a bet…and you shouting about a hand that happens once in ten-thousand…or something like that."

"Mine or the dwarfs?"

"I don't remember."

"Hmmm, so either I lost a bet which may have involved climbing this tree. Or I won, then climbed it in celebration."

Darrian shifted and Zevran snuggled closer. Despite their location, this wasn't really uncomfortable. The limb they perched on was wide and didn't sway when they moved. Not to mention that the thick summer foliage provided ample cover.

"Maybe. But what happened to our clothes?" Darrian asked.

He leaned back while Zevran chuckled and traced random patterns with his fingertips in the hollow of his lover's shoulder.

"You know, my Warden, that doesn't really need an explanation. Either I was going to ravish you in celebration or to console myself with losing to a rank beginner." He peered down through the leaves stirring in the dawn breeze. "And we do seem to be alone."

"You want to make love. Up here."

He nipped playfully at Darrian's shoulder. "Why not? I've never done it halfway up a tree. Neither, I suspect, have you. It's always good to broaden one's experience, yes? Not to mention that it presents an interesting challenge. And what is life without a few challenges, hmmm?"

Darrian smiled. "Simpler?"

"Ah, but where is the fun in that, my Warden?" Zevran slipped his fingers into Darrian's thick hair and pulled his head closer. "Now, about those small clothes," he murmured.


	17. Dead of Night

_Ok, Oghren's been rattling around in my brain for a while now, and wouldn't go away till I put this little tale down. Enjoy.

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Oghren preferred the 'dead man's watch', as the others named it. He liked the quiet, and the soft crackle of the campfire behind him. Most of all, he liked the sky at this time. Between the soft moonlight and the stars, bright and sparkling, like tiny shards of clear glass, it didn't seem quite so far above him. When he looked up he didn't feel like he was going to fall away into nothingness.

A cry sounded off to his left. Damn elves were at it again. Didn't those two ever just sleep? He snorted. Yeah, like he'd just slept when Branka had deigned to stay a few days before taking off again after some mad bit of smith lore. Sodding Paragon they'd made her. And what had that gotten her? Gotten them? Sent her off into the Deep Road searching for that sodding anvil, away from him and whatever dreams he may have cherished. He shook his head. Damn woman, stealing his heart and then stealing away, taking it with her.

She'd always skirted the edge of madness. Searching for that damn anvil had finally pushed her over the abyss. He fingered the small ivory statue in his pocket, then pulled it out. Smooth and worn, he'd given it to her as a courting gift. In the moonlight, the ivory seemed to glow. That fancy pants elf claimed that the ivory wasn't stone, but came from the large tooth of an enormous surface animal. Didn't matter if it did or not. He could keep it in his pocket, keep something close that she had touched and treasured, even if he hadn't been able to keep her.

She'd liked horses. He had never understood why. Still didn't understand, even after he'd met one in the flesh. Great smelly beasts that would as soon nip him as let him ride. 'Cept for that little chestnut mare of the Warden's. She always nuzzled his hand for an apple or a stick of carrot, which, of course, he gave her, telling her at the same time to keep it just between them.

Oghren grunted and slipped the little horse back into his pocket. Damn woman. Dead and gone into the stone, and she still yanked at his heart. Two sodding years he'd tried to convince someone to help him find her. Two sodding years, and never a one to even give him the time of day until them Gray Wardens had shown up. And damn, he'd been desperate enough to ask a sodding surfacer for help. The human Warden had hesitated, looked like he might have said no before looking at the other Warden. An elf with stone gray eyes, sprinkled with bits of emerald and turquoise, had said yes. Who would have thought it?

Oghren glanced up at the moon, riding just above the low hills in the west. In another hour, it would be below them, and he could turn his watch over to the elf Warden, who always took the dawn watch. Man said he liked watching the sun come up. The dwarf shivered. Sun-up meant that damn endless blue sky, like a lake turned upside-down over his head. A man could drown in that much blue. But he'd put up with it…for the Warden's sake. For the man who'd help him finally say good-bye to Branka, and shown him that there was still something worth fighting for. Yeah, he'd put up with a lot for that kind of man.

Shifting his axe to his other shoulder, Oghren thought about the jug of fine dwarven ale waiting for breakfast, while above him, the stars slowly faded from the sky.


	18. Last Rite

_I sometimes wondered what happened to the two templars guarding the doors to the chantry in Denerim the Warden encounters when he arrives there after the battle at Ostagar. The two mentioned here are the same ones who appear in my other Random Bites story, "Memories."_

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_Draw your last breath, my friend,_

_Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky._

_Rest at the Maker's right hand,_

_And be Forgiven._

Those verses were always chanted at a death-watch. They were supposed to be comforting, the reassurance of a benevolent afterlife for those who believed. Aiden couldn't find comfort in them. After spending the last several months watching over ser Royce, Aiden wasn't even sure if he believed in the Maker anymore, at least, not the one the Chantry taught. How could he when those Maker's clerics insisted that Ser Royce, even though he lay dying, still had to take lyrium.

Aiden shut out the droning voice of the Chanter outside the door and rubbed the side of his head. He barely noticed when the woman finished, then slipped away to get ser Royce's lyrium. After almost a week, it had become a ritual. At least she left them in peace after she delivered the dose. The older templar had slept through all the chanting. He'd spent most of his time sleeping since that last stroke that had so weakened him.

The young templar glanced at the pale winter sunlight sifting through the curtains. Steel-grey clouds gathered on the horizon. It would be snowing by nightfall. He wondered how many bodies would be hidden beneath the white blanket the storm would leave behind it. How many of those had fallen to darkspawn? How many had fallen in the civil war following the shattering failure at Ostagar?

Ser Royce stirred and his eyes fluttered open. "Why is it so cold?" His hands plucked at the thick gray blanket.

Aiden pulled it up and tucked it around the older man's shoulders. "There, is that better?"

Ser Royce peered at him. "But aren't we supposed to be on duty?" He started rising. "I'm supposed-"

"To be resting. That's your duty now," Aiden said, gently pushing him back down on the bed. "It's all right. You've been ill."

"Have I?"

"Yes, but…you'll be better soon. Soon, you'll be…fine."

"You're good to me," ser Royce said, his eyes drifting closed.

The Chanter slipped back into the room, holding a small pewter cup with the lyrium dose.

"I'll make sure he takes it," Aiden said, accepting the cup. The Chanter glanced at the sleeping templar, then nodded before gliding out of the room.

Aiden stared at the cup. A man had the right to leave life with a clear mind, to have the chance to think back on it and remember what he'd done and said before departing this world. His fingers tightened on the pewter. Maker, what was he contemplating? It was a grave sin to even think it. Then let him be damned to wander the Fade for eternity, he thought, rising and heading for the window. He glanced back to make sure no one was in the hallway. Then he opened the window and emptied the cup into the narrow strip of dry grass between the chantry building and an abandoned house.

He picked up the small water pitcher and rinsed the cup out, then dumped the rinse water onto the grass. After refilling the cup, he returned to the stool and laid a hand on the older templar's shoulder.

"Here, you need to drink this," Aiden said.

Ser Royce mumbled something, but lifted his head while Aiden held the cup to his lips. After he finished, Aiden set the cup on the table with the pitcher, then went to poke the fire and add a bit more wood to ward off the chill that had started creeping back into the room. Outside, fat thick flakes drifted down, piling up on the windowsill.

For the next few days he emptied the cup. At first, Aiden worried that withdrawal symptoms might betray him. But while ser Royce fidgeted a little, plucking at the covers and complaining of the cold, he showed no other signs. Maybe it was the pain-killing drugs the healer prescribed to ease the dying. Maybe it was simply because he was dying.

Late in the afternoon on the fourth day after Aiden had started dumping the lyrium when ser Royce woke up, his eyes were clear and focused.

"I'm dying," he said softly. Aiden's heart quickened and he leaned forward, resting his hand on the bed.

"I'm dying," the old templar repeated, then looked at Aiden. "So many years…wasted."

A man shouldn't think that at the ending of his life. "No, not wasted. You-"

Ser Royce shook his head. "Wasted. Should have left…taken him with me."

"Your son?"

The older templar frowned. "I have a son?" He sighed. "So many holes…in my head. Memories gone…blown away like autumn leaves."

Suddenly, a fierce light kindled in his eyes and he gripped Aiden's hand with surprising strength.

"Leave. Leave while you can before they steal your soul."

Aiden stared, his heart racing. Then ser Royce slumped back against his pillows, his eyes clouding over.

"Smells like more snow," he mumbled before drifting into sleep. He died later that night, when the moon was creeping up the sky.

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Aiden gazed out the window into the clear dark night. A full moon glazed the snow silver. Despite the thick clouds, only a few inches had fallen. Easy enough for a lone man, free of the heavy weight of armor and robes, to travel through. A prickle of excitement, lightly laced with fear shivered down his back. Leave the only place he'd ever known as home? He glanced back at the empty space left in the bed after they'd taken ser Royce's body away to prepare it for the funeral rites.

Andraste's ashes, he didn't want to end up like that, losing his soul a piece at a time. He retreated to his tiny room just down the hall. No one would look for him till the funeral rites late tomorrow morning. He left his armor piled on the bed, the heavy constricting robe dumped beside it.

He took one last look around before strapping his sword to his back to keep it out of the way, then slinging the strap of his travel pack over his shoulder. He had the right to leave since he had yet to take his final vows. That didn't mean they would easily let him go.

He slipped down the hallway to a side stairwell that was seldom used. The sharp night air stung his nose when he stepped outside. He pulled up the hood of his cloak, and thought that ser Royce was right. It did smell like more snow was coming.

Glancing down the narrow alley, he wondered where he should go. In a land facing a possible Blight and a civil war forcing many to choose sides, there must surely be some worthy bann or knight who would welcome a good sword.

He thought about stopping briefly at the sanctuary to offer up a prayer for ser Royce's soul. The guards would let a fellow templar pass. But if the Maker really was everywhere, then it didn't matter where a prayer was offered, did it?

Aiden spared a last look behind him. "Maker keep you safe, my friend," he whispered, his breath hanging soft and fragile in the air. Then he turned and slipped away into the night.


	19. Sick Days

_This was inspired by a prompt from the dao_lightning round challenge -sickness- over at live journal. Enjoy. And I hope everyone has a happy holiday._

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Zevran had survived darkspawn, bounty hunters, bandits, assorted demons, two dragons (Flemeth and the Arch-demon), and even the Crow enforcers sent to exact payment for a failed contract. Maker help him, he'd even survived those bland congealed messes that ex-templar claimed were lamb and pea stew. Nevertheless, it seemed that Ferelden might still be the death of him. If he was going to die, at least he was in a soft bed in a clean inn. There were certainly worse places to spend one's last days.

He clenched his teeth against another wave of nausea. Every muscle shivered with liquid pain. His head felt like someone had set fire to his hair. And his stomach…the assassin groaned and rolled to his side. Oh, Maker, his stomach felt like it was trying to turn itself inside out.

His gaze drifted to the window. Snow spilled out of an iron-gray sky and piled up on the windowsill, filled in the points of the diamond pane window. He shivered. It had started yesterday afternoon while he and Darrian were still on the road. Throughout the day an ache had been building in his head, and a dry scratchy feeling in the back of his throat. Worn out from fighting the cold and the wind, he'd collapsed into bed shortly after dinner, Darrian curled around him. He'd assumed the achy muscles and sore throat just symptoms from the cold wind that had whipped around them most of the day. Symptoms that would be gone after a good night's sleep followed by a long leisurely session of love-making come morning. He should have known better.

The door opened and his Warden glided into view, carrying a tray with a pitcher, a cup, and a steaming bowl that smelled of garlic and chicken broth. He smiled and set it down on the small table, then closed the door before settling on the bed and laying the back of his hand against Zevran's forehead. His cool hand felt good against the assassin's fevered skin.

"I think you have a touch of flu," Darrian said.

Zevran grimaced. A touch? It felt more like a body slam from that ex-templar's shield.

"Oh, and how long does this 'touch' last, my Warden?"

"About a week."

"A week?" Zevran bolted upright and immediately regretted it, as nausea engulfed him once again. He leaned back against the headboard and muttered curses in Antivan. Nothing quite like one's native tongue for cursing, and Antivan had ones that would make a hardened soldier blush.

Darrian picked up the cup, then held it out. "Here, this should help settle your stomach a bit."

"That is a cruel, cruel smile, _amora," _Zevran said as he accepted the cup.

"I probably shouldn't tell you that it's going to get worse before it gets better, then."

He leaned on one hand on the bed. Despite feeling like something the cat had dragged through a bramble bush, Zevran couldn't help but notice the wedge of silky skin exposed where the Warden's shirt gaped open. Winter pale, it gleamed like fine ivory, an open invitation for the succulent kisses and tiny bites that sent his lover clutching at the sheets –or better, at him – and moaning in the most deliciously erotic way.

Zevran let his fingers trail over that small area of exposed skin as he sipped cool mint tea laced with honey. It was exactly how he liked his tea, cool and sweet. Darrian smiled, then took his hand and kissed his fingers.

"You can't be feeling that bad if you're thinking of getting me naked."

Zevran smiled. "_Amora, _I'm always thinking of getting you naked." Then he leaned back and sighed.

"I take it they don't have the flu in Antiva."

"They have many other things. Most of which I had the fortune to avoid catching." He held out his empty cup.

"And the ones you didn't?" Darrian asked as he re-filled it.

Zevran shrugged as he accepted the cup back. "I survived them, obviously."

Darrian gazed down at his hand resting on the blanket. "Zev, the Crows…did they…I mean…" He swallowed and the corners of his mouth tightened, then relaxed.

The assassin slipped his hand under his Warden's chin and gently tilted his head up. "If you're trying to ask if they engaged a healer when someone was sick, then yes, generally. Though only because they wanted to minimize losses on their 'investments.' There was certainly nothing…personal in it."

"So…no chicken soup or bedtime stories?" Darrian said, trying to sound light and not succeeding.

Zevran smoothed back a strand of russet hair, tucking it behind his lover's ear. "Hmm, does it matter now, _amora?_"

"I suppose not. It's just…"

"What?" the assassin asked, tilting his head.

"I don't know. Maybe it's just because today…is the anniversary of my mother's death."

Darrian looked away, flushing slightly, and sorrow flitted through his grey eyes. Six years gone and her death at the hands of a _shem _guard still tugged at his heart. But it was only a passing shadow, the poignant sorrow one felt for an old loss. Nothing to fear or hide from, Darrian had taught him that over the past year and a half. It hadn't been an easy lesson, but then, anything worthwhile never came easy.

That soft smile that sent a warm shiver through Zevran's heart every time he saw it returned to his Warden's face. The assassin finished off the tea, then put the cup on the table.

Darrian glanced at the bowl. "The inn cook is an elf. He was kind enough to let me borrow his kitchen."

Zevran smiled. "Ah, and do you plan on telling me a bed-time story too, _amora?"_

"Maybe." Darrian picked up the bowl, then handed it to him. "Or I could just keep you company."

For a moment, a lewd comment as to just how his Warden might do that hovered on the edge of Zevran's tongue. But in light of what this day meant to the man who had claimed his heart, it didn't seem appropriate. So Zeveran swallowed the words with the soup. His stomach had stopped feeling like it was trying to tie itself in knots. But he still felt boneless, as if his muscles wanted to pour themselves into new shapes.

After Zevran finished his broth, he curled up under the curve of his lover's arm, his own draped across his Darrian's chest.

"A week, hmm?"

"Give or take a few days."

Closing his eyes, Zevran snuggled closer. Maker, this was…nice, even if the man was still dressed. He slipped his hand inside Darrian's shirt, so that it lay over his heart.

"When I'm feeling better, _amora…"_ he murmured, his thumb brushing warm silken skin.

Soft lips brushed his hair. Content, Zevran smiled and drifted into sleep.


	20. Winter

_Set in my "Two Sides" universe and written beause it's cold and snowy here in the heartland of America. Many thanks to those who read/favorite/reviews these random little tidbits. _

_Enjoy!_

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Despite having spent over two years in Ferelden, Zevran still wasn't used to winter. He shivered when, through the windows of the inn's common room, he glimpsed iron-gray clouds filling up the sky. It would be snowing by mid-afternoon.

"Gonna be a big one, this first snow," the bar maid said with a cheerful smile as she set a goblet of spiced and mulled wine on the small, round table beside him.

Zevran, nestled in a padded chair close to the fire, managed a weak smile for courtesy's sake and dropped payment for the drink, plus a generous tip, on her tray.

She bobbed a curtsy and smiled, then glided to a nearby table where a trio of men sat drinking ale and playing some game involving dice and telling very bad jokes.

"Why does everyone in this frozen country think snow is a good thing?" the assassin muttered, cradling his drink in his hands and relishing the warmth curling around his fingers, and trailing down his throat as he sipped the wine. Tam, nestled at his feet, opened an eye, then snorted and settled back to dozing.

"Snow is cold. Worse, it's cold and wet. I cannot think of a worse combination."

Tam's back leg twitched, shoving against Zevran's foot.

"I know you're awake, my furry friend."

The mabari sighed and sat up, then leaned against the assassin's leg.

A drift of cold air caressed Zevran's neck as someone opened the front door. Tam glanced back. From the way the mabari's tail started thumping against the floor, Zevran knew that his Warden had returned.

Darrian settled into the chair on the other side of the table and smiled, his cheeks rosy. The metal tang of winter air drifted around him as he loosened his heavy woolen cloak, then let it drape over the back of his chair.

"You look pleased with yourself, _amora. _Like a cat who's stolen the cream."

The smile deepened as Darrian leaned forward, and placed a jeweler's loop near Zevran's drink .

"You need to get out, Zev. You've been huddled by that fireplace for the last three days."

"Yes, well, I've become quite attached to my fingers and toes, not to mention my ear tips."

Darrian leaned back. "Aren't you always telling me to appreciate the finer things in life?"

"Oh, and when did cold and wet become one of the 'finer things'?" Zevran said, then took a sip of his wine.

Darrian shook his head, but he was still smiling. He motioned to the jeweler's loop. "I want to show you something that might change your mind about winter."

Zevran leaned forward, resting one elbow on the table and his chin on his palm. "I'd rather take something off…preferably something on you, _caro mio."_

"You know, I could have Tam drag you outside."

The mabari's ears perked up at the mention of his name.

"Hmmm, you could. But, you won't."

"All right, bluff called." His lover's eyes went soft, grey as the winter clouds gathering outside, but the flecks of emerald and turquoise in them gleamed in the light from the fire. "But I really do want you to come with me. There's this wooded place on the hill just outside town. The trees block most of the wind, but I don't think there's going to be much of one." He glanced out the window. "The air's pretty still out there, even with all the clouds."

That smile that sent a warm tingle through Zevran's heart, not to mention other places, tugged at the corners of his lover's mouth. The assassin sighed. He never could say no when Darrian smiled like that. That smile wasn't artifice, either, a coy teasing to get his way, for all it hinted at unspoken promises and shared secrets.

So it was, that a short time later, he settled down on a thick old, gray blanket under a pine tree at the top of a small hill. Fur-lined gloves kept his fingers warm and a soft, sea-green scarf kept the worst of the chill from snaking down the back of his neck. The flask of fine Antivan brandy Darrian had brought along didn't hurt, either. Tam, smart hound that he was, had stayed by the fire.

Despite the heavy cloud cover, there was little wind. A thick layer of pine needles beneath the blanket insulated them from the cold ground. With no wind, and snugged up against his Warden, it really was rather…pleasant.

"So, is this a common Fereldan pastime, sitting outside in the middle of winter, waiting for a storm to break over one's head?"

Darrian only smiled and continued sketching the lay of the hill and the winding road that lay below them. The ends of his gloves had been cut off, to make it easier to handle the slender pencil. Zevran leaned over, resting his chin on his lover's shoulder.

"You know, you're getting quite good at that."

"Well, you know that old saying about practice making perfect."

Zevran chuckled. "Yes, we have that saying in Antiva, too." He glanced at the jeweler's loop in his left hand. "You still haven't told me what this is supposed to be for. Are you expecting diamonds to fall out of the sky, perhaps?"

"Something like that."

"You are a terrible tease, _amora,_" Zevran said, nuzzling his lover's cheek.

His eyes slid over to Zevran's, then back to his sketch. "Meaning what? That I'm terrible at it? Or terrible for doing it?"

"Hmm, both, I think."

After a few minutes, thick fat snowflakes started drifting down. Zevran grimaced, and shifted closer to Darrian. His lover closed up his sketchbook, then tucked it and the pencil back into the small leather bag lying on the ground near his hip. He exchanged the fingerless gloves for a pair of supple fur-lined ones, then gently extracted the jeweler's loop from Zevran's fingers.

"Come, I want to show you something," he said, rising and stepping out from beneath the shelter of pine branches. He held out his hand, palm up, underneath the falling snow. By the time Zevran rose to stand beside him, at least a dozen flakes lay scattered across his glove. Darrian held the loop out to him.

"Take a look."

Zevran arched a brow. "You want me to look at snowflakes… through a jeweler's loop?"

His Warden just smiled and motioned with the loop. Zevran shrugged, then took it and fitted it to his eye. He didn't know what to expect. The first few flakes he scanned, irregular, spiky clusters of frozen water, did nothing to change his opinion about snow. But then…His hand tightened on Darrian's forearm.

A simple shape, a translucent hexagon, like a flat plate, shimmering with tiny rainbows, nestled next to several with fern-like structures. Six-pointed, branching out in delicate, sword-like projections, they lay beside star-like plates with scalloped edges.

Scattered across his lover's palm, trailing up his wrist and forearm, Zevran followed the path of crystalline water. Many were just irregular globs, but others glittered like frozen jewels. Six sided, symmetrical and every one of them a different shape. Maker, he'd never seen anything so fragile looking. The delicate lace of a woman's fine _mantilla_ seemed coarse and heavy by comparison. When he came to a intricately spiked flake with twelve sides, he just stared.

"Zev?" Darrian's voice, soft above him.

The assassin straightened, still holding his Warden's forearm, and slipped the loop off, then tucked it into his pants pocket. "This isn't fair, you know."

"Oh?"

He waved a hand at the ground turning white around them. "How can I possibly continue disparaging something… so beautiful?"

"It's still cold and wet, if that helps."

Zevran laughed and pulled Darrian in for a long, slow kiss, the kind that sent the blood rushing, warm and sweet, through his veins. After a long moment, they pulled apart, both breathless, snowflakes gathering in their hair, and melting down their cheeks. Zevran shivered as a thin icy trickle slipped past the edge of his scarf and down his neck.

Darrian kissed his cheek, then scooped up his leather pack from the ground.

Zevran thought about the warm fire he'd lay in the small hearth in their snug room. And the warm bed where he planned on spending the rest of the afternoon, losing himself in the passionate heat of his lover's embrace. Ah, such a pleasant thought, all that heat in the midst of the cold world.

Zevran glanced at the delicate snowflakes decorating Darrian's russet hair. Perhaps, there was something to be said in winter's favor, after all. And it never hurt to be reminded that beauty existed in unexpected places.

He smiled as he slipped his arm around Darrian's hips, relishing the solid heat of his lover beneath his hand as they headed back to the inn.


	21. The Hardest Thing

_Maker help me, the fluffy plot bunnies have invaded my brain and taken to fornicating shamelessly. Hence, another Zevran/Tabris story from my Twio Sides universe. Of course, it could simply be all this cold winter weather making me think warm, fuzzy thoughts_.

_Either way, enjoy! And many thanks to those who've reviewed and all you lurkers in the shadows._

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The long sliver of bright sunlight slicing across the intricately patterned rug of their room told Zevran that the morning was almost over. The ringing of the noon Chantry bell less then a minute later confirmed it. He smiled and stretched, carefully, so as not to wake his Warden. Rolling over, he tucked his arm under his pillow and gazed at the man sleeping beside him.

Sprawled on his stomach, the light summer blanket kicked down well past Darrian's hips…Zevran, content, sighed very softly and enjoyed the sight of so much luscious, creamy skin and sleek lithe muscle exposed to his view. His Warden's left arm was curved around his pillow, while his right arm was pulled in close, his hand relaxed and open. Thick russet hair spilled across his shoulders. Zevran resisted the urge to tuck stray wisps behind his ear, not wanting to wake him.

The assassin wasn't surprised that he had slept the morning away, but that his Warden also had…now that was a rare thing. He wanted to take advantage of this opportunity to simply drink in the sight of him. Not that he bypassed opportunities when Darrian was awake. Certainly not. But the man was usually clothed and…doing something. Practicing with weapons. Sketching. Tending to some mundane chore. Not a man to sit idle, his Warden.

Just lying here, being with him in a way that demanded nothing from either of them was a rare treat. Zevran smiled, and felt desire stir. His eyes wandered over a body he'd explored every square inch of with hands, lips, and tongue these past two years. Hmmm, speaking of lips…Darrian's were slightly parted, full and so soft, ready to be kissed. Ah, it would be rude to refuse such an exquisite invitation, yes?

His Warden pulled in a sudden breath, snorting and wrinkling his nose.

_Well, that certainly disrupted the mood, _Zevran thought, suppressing a chuckle.

His hand slid forward, and stopped, just a breath from his lover's.

The Arch-demon was a month dead. Alistair was starting to settle, albeit uncomfortably, into his role as king. Something resembling normal life had settled back into the towns and the countryside through which they passed. Well, Zevran assumed it was normal life for Fereldans. In the common room last night during a reasonably good meal, he'd heard people speaking, with cautious hope, about the future.

His smile faded a little. The future was never something he'd given a lot of thought to. He'd asked Darrian once - in between killing Darkspawn, bounty hunters, and the occasional bandit foolish enough to attack them – what the man intended to do with him once this Blight business was over with. His Warden had joked about it, made some remark about being able to always find a use or two for a handsome elf. At the time Zevran had passed it off as flirting, something even he might have said had their situations been reversed. Now, though…He realized now that even in that early time, the Warden's feelings had run deeper than a casual bedding. So had his, come to think of it, though it had taken him much longer to accept it.

Zevran slipped his hand around Darrian's. While his Warden stirred, he didn't wake, though his fingers closed around the assassin's.

The future lay before them now, like a Satanalia gift all tied up with bright, pretty ribbons. And he no idea how to unwrap it, let alone what he would do with it once he opened it.

He squeezed Darrian's hand, and the Warden stirred, his eyes opening.

"Good morning, _amor."_ Zevran chuckled. "Or perhaps I should say good afternoon?"

Darrian groaned, and shifted to his side, keeping hold of Zevran's hand. "Oh, Creators, don't tell me I slept the morning away."

Zevran moved closer, throwing a muscular leg over his lover's hip. "Well, after last night's endeavors, I'm surprised you woke this early."

That brought a smile, and a deep kiss. So sweet, those kisses. So light, those fingers, trailing down the side of his face, and over his chest before coming to rest on his hip.

"Hmmm, not that I'd mind some more…endeavors, but I really had planned on making some time today," Darrian said, tucking a strand of hair behind Zevran's ear.

"It's not as if we have to be anywhere." The assassin waved a hand at the heavily curtained window. "Tomorrow, the road will still be there."

Darrian sighed and rolled to his back. "I know. It's just…" He blew out a breath. "I guess it's just old habits. Always thinking about the next move, and the ones after that. Trying to anticipate the future."

Zevran propped his head on his hand. "And what do you anticipate?"

"I don't know. Now, that I don't have to worry about something trying to kill me, I'm not sure."

"Trust me, _amor,_" Zevran said with a chuckle. "Something will always be trying to kill you. There are still plenty of bandits around. And I wouldn't be surprised if there's even a bounty or hunter or two who hasn't gotten the word yet that Grey Wardens are no longer on the menu."

Darrian's fingers brushed his cheek, then he let his hand settle there. "Not to mention the Crows."

"Yes, well, since they still think I'm dead, we should be safe for a few more months." Zevran turned and kissed his lover's palm. "If we stay on the move, probably longer."

"Which still leaves the future." Darrian sat up. "Zev, I won't…I'm not going to get old, but almost thirty years…that's still a long time …I…"

He looked away, his hands tightening on his thighs. Zevran rose, and slipped his arms around him, pulled him close.

"So, we should buy a little house somewhere, tend a garden….adopt a dog, perhaps?"

Darrian smiled. "We already have a dog. No, it's just…" He turned and buried his face in Zevran's hair, as his arms slid around the assassin. "Remember what I said, just before we went after the Arch-demon?"

Zevran's hands tightened. _I love you, Zevran Arainai. And will, to my dying breath._ A handful of words, whispered with quick, desperate intensity just before they'd dashed to the roof to confront the Arch-demon. Because if the future was going to be stolen from them, Darrian hadn't wanted to die with those words unsaid between them.

How many times had Zevran heard those words exchanged between lovers, licit or otherwise, when he stalked the shadows? Sometimes, the parties involved even meant it. Even those who did, though, often tossed them around without thought. But if there was one thing he had learned about Darrian Tabris in the last two years, it was that the man did nothing without thought. Sometimes, in Zevran's opinion at least, he thought too much. But, if the assassin were pressed about the matter, he would readily admit better that fault, then not thinking about something at all.

He could make some joke about the matter, and Darrian would smile and kiss him, and probably make love to him for the next hour or two…or three. Saying with his body what the assassin couldn't say with words. No, not couldn't…wouldn't. But wasn't the time for that past? The future, however short or long, lay before them. It deserved more then jokes, and better than to be bounded by old fears.

So Zevran pulled back, and slipped his hands into that thick, russet hair. He brushed his lips against Darrian's. A lover and a friend deserved the truth, even if saying it frightened the assassin more than any demon.

He closed his eyes. "I love you, _amor,"_ he whispered, and felt his lover smile against his lips.


	22. Left Behind

Taliesin slouched further down in the sheltered overhang that stretched over the roof of the bakery. He took another long pull on the very expensive bottle of wine he'd lifted from a shop just a few blocks away as he watched the rain dripping off the eaves, then running in a silver sheet across the red roof tiles to spill over into the street below. Zevran had taught him to appreciate the finer vintages. And he could no longer stomach the swill they served in the dockside taverns. Good thing the elf had taught him to be a better thief so he could acquire a bottle or two when the mood struck him. Of course, he could have gotten them from his Master. But that meant a service of some kind. One of the earliest lessons beaten into his hide had been that nothing, absolutely nothing, came without a price. Everything had to be paid for, one way or another.

Which brought his thoughts back to the elf and that sodding incident with Rinna.

Taliesin had always suspected there was far more to Zevran's bedding her than a casual fuck. He'd seen how the elf looked at her when he thought no one was watching him watching Rinna.

"Stupid, Zev, stupid, stupid, stupid," Taliesin muttered before taking another swig. But love did that to people. Made them stupid. Maker knows, he'd seen it often enough in his line of work. Jealous husbands or wives, or lovers of the same took out contracts to eliminate the competition or as revenge for betrayal, real or perceived. All done in the name of 'love.' He grimaced. All love did was get you killed.

Or do stupid things like taking off for foreign lands. As if in running away from Antiva, Zev could run away from the memory of what had happened. Leave it behind to float in the bay for the fish and sea scavengers to feast on and dispose of.

Outwardly, there'd been little change in his demeanor following Rinna's death. The elf's approach to living life in the moment had always held more than a measure of appeal for the human assassin. 'Take pleasure wherever you can find it, my friend, and from every moment' Zev had often told him. It should be carved on his tombstone, if Crows ever decided to erect such memorials to one another.

Zev had bedded Taliesin as often as he had before, with the same lusty disregard and appetite. Yet, underneath all those encounters, something had changed. In the last two months, Zev hadn't bid on a single contract. For a man who previously spent most of his free time scanning the postings and plotting strategy, which usually involved some form of seduction, that behavior was past unusual.

Another long pull on the bottle, and Taliesin let the fine vintage slide down his throat, barely tasting it. He wasn't interested in savoring it. He was interested in getting drunk. Doing it on the top of a roof probably wasn't the best idea he'd ever had. So he shoved the cork back into the bottle, then tucked it inside the narrow leather case with the two others he'd snitched, before heading for the elf's small, neat apartment.

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Zev hadn't taken much with him when he left, his best armor and weapons, a few changes of clothes, grooming items, that over-priced scented oil he liked that always reminded Taliesin of expensive brothels, and a few other odds and ends of personal items.

Taliesin settled into the overstuffed chair, then rested his booted feet on the polished oak surface of the desk, his ankles crossed. He grinned, thinking of how Zev would fuss over that. Then he grunted, and pulled the cork out of the bottle, tossing the stopper over his shoulder. Sod it, he was not going to feel guilty about littering when Zev had just upped and left with never a word of explanation.

Not a damn word. Not that the man owed him any. It was curiosity and pragmatism, certainly not any kind of affection, that made Taliesin wonder what had been running through that pretty blond head to make him take off like that. Sodding elf, just when they were starting to get bids accepted for more than mediocre contracts. It was a shame about Rinna. She'd showed promise, and he'd had no way of knowing that the snitch had been bribed to lie about her supposed betrayal.

His hand closed around the neck of the bottle, and he held it close to his chest. Shit like that happened all the time, especially with a Master like Jepheth. He liked to watch people squirm, and the man could hold a grudge like no one he'd ever met. At least Zevran went for a clean kill, something Taliesin preferred as well. Get in, get the job done, then get out greatly increased the chances of survival. And Zev was a survivor, if nothing else. So, why had the elf taken off like that, leaving a promising career behind? Leaving him behind?

Taliesin stared at the rain streaking down the window. He wasn't going to get any answers sitting here in Zev's bedroom and guzzling stolen wine. Why not go to Denerim? The thought startled him, at first. Though, the more he turned it over, the more he decided he liked it. There were a few loose ends to tie up, but as a lieutenant he had some choices about where he could bid a contract. And the Guild Master was looking to expand Crow influence in Ferelden. There'd even been talk of a possible contract on Grey Wardens. So, why not? Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.

He and Zev could bid on that Warden contract. That would make the Masters sit up and take notice, killing Gray Wardens. And away from Antiva, they could carve out a nice little niche, set themselves up to become Masters of their own house. Yes, Taliesin thought, his boots hitting the floor with a decisive thud, he would go to Denerim and find Zevran.


	23. First Impressions

_This story is set in my 'Two Sides' universe, right after Zevran joins the Warden. A deeper look into what the party member were thinking about our favorite assasin's arrival. In my playthroughs, I always seem to pick up Zevran before Oghen, so his thoughts aren't covered here. Neither is Shale's. While Darrian and Zevran's parts are in first person, the others are in third. As always, comments/feedback/random thoughts are welcome. Enjoy!_

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**Darrian Tabris**

Zevran winced and sank back to the leaf-littered ground, his hand pressed against his side, after he'd pledged himself to me. Alistair had hit him pretty hard, and it was possible he had cracked a rib or two. The assassin's eyes had widened, just a little, when I had pulled the sword away from his throat, as if some part of him really hadn't expected me to spare him. Truth be told, I was a little surprised myself. But if the Crows had bought Zevran when he was a child, then he was a slave, and he hadn't had any choice about killing us. Just as I hadn't had a choice when Duncan had conscripted me into the Grey Wardens, not if I wanted to live.

Under the shifting shadows of a large oak, the assassin gazed up at me, his thoughts and feelings hidden behind a bland smile. It fell over his face so easily, as if he'd practiced it all his life. He probably had. If there was one thing every elf learned early, it was how to hide your heart.

Tam sauntered up, then plopped down beside me, his head tilted as he studied Zevran. I wondered what the mabari thought of the whole incident.

"Keep an eye on him, Tam."

The mabari whuffed, then rose and stood in front of Zevran who eyed him with wary amusement.

I turned around, looking for Wynne, and found Morrigan standing by the small campfire, frowning, her arms folded. She'd already started dinner. The afternoon breeze shifted, and I smelled thyme, wild onions, and dried meat simmering in the cook pot suspended over the fire behind her. At least Zevran's first meal with us would be something decent.

"You're quite sure about this?" she murmured as I passed by her.

I stopped, a dry twig cracking under my boot. "Yes, I am."

She shook her head. "Foolish little man, he'll kill you given half a chance."

By now, I was used to her sardonic comments. She used words the way Alistair used a shield.

I glanced around. "In a camp full of people, I doubt it. And there's always someone on watch."

"If he's half as good as you at creeping around that won't be much of a hindrance."

I hid a smile at her back-handed compliment. "Perhaps you could turn him into a toad?"

Her tawny eyes flicked in his direction, as if she were seriously considering it. While Morrigan could shape shift, I didn't know if she could do that to other people. Or if any mage could. Rumors abounded, but no one I'd ever talked to had ever actually seen such a thing happen.

"I assume you'll want me to burn the bodies back there?" she said, waving a hand in the direction of the failed ambush.

I nodded. "We should be able to take care of that and return to camp by nightfall."

"Very well, I'll be near my tent when you need me."

She sauntered off, and I couldn't help but notice how Zevran's eyes followed her, looking at her the way a man looks at a woman he finds attractive. He glanced back at me then, with the same look he'd given Morrigan. I twisted away from him, feeling a flush rising in my ear tips, not sure what to make of that appraisal, and finding that some part of me was pleased by it. Blessed Creators, the man had been hired to kill me and Alistair. And here I was, feeling heat for him. I spotted Wynne then, coming back from the stream with a bucket of water and hurried towards her.

**Wynne**

Wynne set the bucket down by the campfire, straightening as the Warden glided up. He'd yet to clean the blood off his leather armor. Traces of it still lingered on his face, smeared across one cheek. So young, to have so much responsibility, she thought, not for the first time. During their travels she'd offered her opinion from time to time, trying to give him the benefit of her experience. One couldn't live all those years and not learn something, after all. But, though he never overtly rejected it, she always had the feeling he was only listening out of courtesy. He seemed one inclined to follow his own heart and will.

"Wynne?"

She smiled. "Yes? Is there something you need, Warden?"

He glanced at the Crow assassin sitting on the ground, his hand pressed against his side.

"I'd like you to take a look at Zevran. Alistair hit him pretty hard. He may have cracked a rib, and we need everyone able to fight."

"Of course."

After a lifetime of bending, the words came easily, even when the mind and will protested. She watched as he headed for the stream, probably to wash off the blood. For a man she assumed had been raised in squalor, he was surprisingly fastidious about cleaning.

_Why do you object to healing the Antivan?_ the spirit inside Wynne asked as she retrieved the leather satchel holding her medicines she'd left by the campfire.

_He tried to kill us, remember?_ The scent of dried herbs floated out as she checked to see if there were any healing potions left. There weren't. And she'd left the bandages and healing salve in her tent.

_He failed, and the elven Warden spared him._

_The Antivan is an assassin. A man hired to kill others._

She sensed the spirit ruminating over that. _And you see this as wrong?_

Wynne closed up the bag. _Of course. _

_But you helped the Wardens and the others kill those people in the ambush._

She rubbed her forehead. Oh, how to explain the difference between cold-blooded murder and self-defense.

_We have the right to protect ourselves. _

_Then why not render them unconscious and leave them? It seems that would have accomplished the same end._

Wynne turned and set her healer's pouch back inside her tent, then sorted through her gear piled to one side for the salve and bandages while she considered how to answer the spirit.

_They would have followed us, and we would have had to fight them again, _she finally said.

_So you killed them out of expediency._

She froze, the edge of her blanket clutched in her fingers. It jarred, to hear the reason stated so baldly. Even if it held a particle of truth, there _were_ differences. But she had a duty to tend to just now.

_Perhaps we could discuss this later, after dinner?_

_As you wish,_ the spirit said, then withdrew to a distant corner of her mind. She gathered up her supplies and opened the flap.

When she emerged from her tent, she saw that the Crow assassin was back on his feet, tugging at one of the buckles of his cuirass. He grimaced as he pulled out the strap, then reached for the last buckle. Well, he couldn't be hurting that badly if he could unbuckle his own armor. Though, he did wince as he pulled the padded leather, revealing a linen shirt of pale green.

He glanced up as she approached him, a half-smile on his face, as he laid the cuirass on a nearby log. This close, she could see the fine stitching on the shoulder seams of his shirt. And was that a delicate key motif embroidered in dark green silk around the neckline? Apparently, murder paid well.

"Ah, to what do I owe the pleasure of such delightful company?" Was he flirting with her?

She smoothed her face, and motioned to his chest. "The Warden asked to make sure none of your ribs were broken."

He actually chuckled. "Concerned about my health, is he?"

"A good leader is always concerned about those… under his command."

"Even one who tried to kill him, it seems," Zevran said dryly.

She felt her temper rising at his audacity. "How can you joke about such a thing?"

"It was just business," he said with a shrug, then winced. She didn't smile, but she did take a bit of satisfaction from his discomfort.

"Please, remove your shirt so I can examine you." A cool professionalism was always best in dealing with such people as him.

"As you wish, fair lady. Though, I might ask if there's anything else you wish me to…remove? I think I may have pulled a groin muscle when that shield rammed me."

Maker's breath, he _was_ flirting with her. And she was old enough to be his grandmother.

"I think the shirt will be sufficient. You appear to be standing quite comfortably."

He murmured something in Antivan as he complied. But she was not going to lose another shred of dignity by asking him what he'd said. She set the bandages and healing salve next to his cuirass on the log.

A wash of deep, mottled purple in the vague shape of Alistair's shield spread down his chest and upper stomach. He winced when she started gently probing his sides. Well muscled, he had none of the slender delicacy one associated with elves, though during the battle, he'd moved like a cat, quick and agile. Like the Warden.

She let her awareness sink into his flesh, then sensed pain, greater than he was showing. But no ribs were cracked, and while the muscles were badly bruised, there were no rips or tears. Reaching into the Fade, the healing energy flowed through her hands, a soft, golden haze that spread over his injury.

He sighed, very softly, as the dark bruises slowly faded, leaving his honey skin clear and unmarked. As the last of the discoloration vanished, she couldn't help thinking that he really was quite an attractive man. Glancing up, she saw him smirking at her.

She flushed slightly, and turned to retrieve the bandages from the log. Here it comes, she thought, rewinding one of the bandage rolls that had loosened as he pulled his shirt back on.

But he only said, "Thank you," as he laced his shirt back up. She just nodded, then headed back to her tent, making a point of not looking at him.

She had just finished putting things away when the Warden came up to her, his face and armor scrubbed clean of blood. His hand curled around his sword hilt. Lately, it always seemed to be resting there.

"Have you seen Sten or Alistair? We need to go back and retrieve whatever we can salvage in the way of food or other supplies."

He talked, so easily, about robbing the dead. Taking weapons and food made sense. Even armor and the coins they carried. But stripping away personal items like rings and shoes just seemed…wrong. At least, he saw that the bodies were cremated and a few prayers said over their ashes.

"I believe they're seeing to the horses," Wynne said, and then before he could ask. "I tended the assassin. He appears to be in fighting form."

Did the Warden flush just in the slightest? "I take it nothing was broken."

"Only my heart, Warden," Zevran said, coming up to them. "Ah, forgive my interruption, but you left this behind, lovely woman." He held out the jar of salve, smiling that insufferable smile. How could he be so cavalier when all his companions lay dead? Did he feel nothing for them?

She almost snatched the jar out of his hand. The assassin only smirked and looped his thumbs over his belt, settling back on his heels.

The Warden motioned to where Zevran had left his cuirass. "Get your armor on, we're heading back to the ravine to retrieve whatever supplies are left."

One golden eyebrow quirked upward. "Oh?"

"Yes, you can keep whatever belongs to you, though I'll hold onto your weapons for a while, including the throwing knives I took when you were unconscious."

"A pity I wasn't awake when you searched me. Perhaps, next time?"

The Warden's face went very still. "Just be ready to leave in a few minutes." Then he was striding away to where the horses were picketed.

**Sten**

Sten watched from his station near the horses as the elves glided up. Like a golden shadow, Zevran trailed the Warden. The assassin should have been killed once all useful information had been extracted from him. There seemed little point in keeping a known enemy alive, another drain on what few resources they had. As it was, the two Wardens ate enough for four or five men. Three of the horses needed new shoes, and he didn't like the creaking he'd heard coming from the rear axle of the wagon for the last few days.

"Warden?" Sten said, his hand resting on _Asala's_ hilt.

"We're going to retrieve what supplies we can. I think three horses will be enough to carry it."

Violet eyes flicked in Zevran's direction. "Will the assassin be coming with us?"

"Yes." The tones warned against dispute. Alistair, combing out the mane of the roan gelding next to the qunarai frowned, but said nothing.

"Very well." Though Sten it wiser to tie the blond elf up and leave him behind.

"I'll get the others," the Warden said, then glanced at Zevran. "Wait here."

"As you wish, Warden." The man was striding away before the assassin had finished his brief statement.

"You know how to ride, elf?" Sten asked, since he was going to be traveling with them from now on.

"Of course, though I rather hope I won't have to do so face down again. A most uncomfortable position, as I can attest to from personal-"

"Do you always use so many words to answer a simple question?"

"I can be brief."

"Then do so." To his relief, the elf only nodded. Though why he was smiling was puzzling. A man who hovered on the edge of death would seem to have little reason to smile about anything. Sten grunted. These people made little sense.

By the time he'd gathered up three of the horses, including the gelding Alistair was working on, the Warden had returned with the witch and the bard.

Accepting the gelding's reins from Sten, the Warden led the horse down the narrow game trail that ran from their camp to what passed for a road. Morrigan and Leliana trailed behind Alistair, who led the second horse as he walked behind Sten.

The assassin strolled beside the elven Warden, which seemed a foolish thing for the Warden to allow. Just because Zevran didn't have his blades didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. Crows were skilled in more than one kind of killing. But then, Sten reflected, so was the Warden. And while his decisions sometimes made little sense, he wasn't really a man who took foolish risks. Whatever his reasoning, he had spared the assassin and even extended a measure of trust. That didn't mean Sten wasn't going to keep a close eye on him.

When they emerged onto the road, Alistair hurried up to the Warden, flanking the assassin on the right. Sten, holding the reins of the third horse, moved into a position directly behind Zevran, so that the assassin's path was blocked from three directions. Zevran glanced back, giving Sten that ambiguous half-smile and the barest hint of a nod before returning his attention to the uneven road ahead of him.

Sten's eyes narrowed. His move had been noted and acknowledged. It appeared the assassin would be keeping an eye on him as well.

"I thought Wynne was coming, too," Alistair said.

"She said she was tired. I told Tam to stay behind and keep her company," Darrian said.

Thankfully, they continued the short journey in blessed silence after that brief exchange.

Sten expected the assassin to make some kind of protest, even if only a token one at scavenging the dead when they arrived at the scene of his defeat and capture. After all, they were going to loot the corpses of his fallen comrades. But he said nothing, and his face showed nothing but that bland smile.

Sten puzzled over it a moment, then shrugged it away. At the Warden's request, he went to help Alistair arrange the bodies for cremation.

**Alistair**

Alistair grimaced at the stench that wafted up from the site of their most recent battle. Despite what he'd told Darrian in the Tower of Ishal at Ostagar, you never really got used to the smell of death and blood. You learned to block it out, to ignore it, so that you didn't retch up your guts after every battle. But get used to it? No, not if you wanted to hold onto your soul. Sometimes, he'd worried that Darrian was losing his a piece at a time.

He worried about that now, as he watched his fellow Warden roam through the rock strewn ravine, thick with the smell of spilled guts and blood, pausing at bodies to remove what few coins they had, and what few trinkets they wore. His face showed nothing, not even that hard anger Alistair had seen when he'd challenged Darrian's looting of the bodies of the bandits they'd been forced to slay outside of Lothering. Alistair didn't challenge it now. After the last round of repairs and buying supplies, they had only a scant handful of silver. Hard necessity had begun to chip away at his ideals. He wondered how many he would lose before they were done gathering an army to fight the darkspawn.

Even after fighting and bleeding beside him for the last two months, there were contradictory pieces of his fellow Warden's character that Alistair couldn't reconcile. The elf could be hard as stone, as immovable as a mountain. He'd cut through both the darkspawn at Ostagar, and the demons and abominations in the tower, with efficient and bloody grace. He robbed these dead of any and every trinket worth even a few copper coins. Then, despite that he followed other gods, he would ensure their bodies would be cremated and a funeral prayer sung over their ashes. Like he'd done with the bandits outside Lothering, though since Leliana had yet to join them, no prayers had been said. And on top of everything, Darrian had spared the man hired by Loghain to kill them.

Alistair grimaced and turned back to watch as the assassin rummaged through the shattered and singed remains of the ox-cart. He really should be paying more attention to their newest party member/prisoner. Despite his pledge of loyalty, Alistair didn't trust him as far as he could throw him. The elven assassin had probably also given a pledge to Loghain, and look how easily he'd turned aside from it when it had suited him. Still, Alistair could understand why Darrian hadn't killed him. Aiming a killing blow in the heat of battle to keep the other fellow from gutting you was one thing. Running an unarmed man through in cold blood while he lay bound? He couldn't have done that, either.

"Ah, here they are," Zevran said, after hauling up what remained of the back hatch of the wagon. He shoved it to one side, then extracted a battered pair of leather bags. Alistair wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad one that Zevran didn't flinch in the slightest when the flat of the ex-templar's sword suddenly came down on his hand when Zevran started opening one of the bags.

"I can assure you, my dear Warden, there is nothing more dangerous in here than some unwashed laundry."

"Then why open it?"

He waved his free hand in Morrigan's direction, where she stood at the edge of the carnage. "Well, our lovely mage was tossing fireballs and lightning around quite freely. I only wished to ensure that nothing was…singed. Magic can skip around, you know."

Alistair's grip tightened on his sword. "I know what magic can do, and what it can't. I trained as a templar before I joined the Grey Wardens."

Zevran glanced off to his left. "Ah, that would explain why poor Rusha had so much trouble casting."

"You don't seem terribly broken up by her death."

"I barely knew her, or any of the others." He eased his hand out from under Alistair's sword. "And they were Crows. They knew the risks." He motioned to the battlefield around them. "You think they walked into this with their eyes closed? Death is a familiar companion for a Crow."

"You're a bloody assassin. How couldn't it be?"

Zevran slung the straps of his travel bags over his shoulder. Whatever he might have said next stayed behind his teeth when Darrian strode up to them.

"Alistair, please give Sten a hand with the bodies. And Zevran?"

"Yes, Warden?"

Alistair slipped his sword back into its sheath, and wished there was something he could do or say to wipe that damnable smile off the elven assassin's face.

"I want you to make sure all your people are…accounted for."

The smile disappeared, leaving nothing behind it to betray whatever Zevran was thinking or feeling.

"As you wish, Warden," he said in a voice that hinted at nothing.

"And give Leliana their names," Darrian said, then turned to leave.

"Warden?" Zevran sounded surprised. Secretly, Alistair was more than a bit pleased that the assassin had been even a little startled.

"Just do it." Short and curt, then he hurried away.

"Why does he want their names?" Zevran asked Alistair.

"Oh, can't remember who you brought along as battle fodder?"

Zevran's stance never changed, but his still, cold look sent a shiver across Alistair's neck. Then that look vanished as quickly as it had come, replaced by an easy façade as he brushed past the ex-templar. Watching his retreating back, Alistair wondered why he'd ever wanted to see that smile disappear. No matter, he would still keep a very close eye on the assassin, he thought, as he went to help Sten arrange the bodies. When they finished laying them out in two neat rows, their limbs arranged as best they could given the grievous wounds some had, he went to fetch Morrigan.

**Morrigan**

The scent of death had become a familiar one, and standing so close to it, almost overpowering. Even if the human sense of smell was the weakest of all creatures'. Morrigan turned from the sight of battle, and scanned the long, black ribbon of scorch marks along the ridgeline of the ravine. Halfway to this ambush, the elven Warden had slipped back to join her at the very rear of their small group and confided his suspicions that Rusha was leading them into a trap. Even that thick-headed templar had seemed to sense something, if the way he'd kept fingering the hilt of his sword and frowning at their guide's back had been any indication.

"If there's any high ground, there's probably going to be archers or mages there," Darrian had told her. "Take them out first. Sten, Alistair, and I can handle the others, while Leli picks off strays."

A clever man, this elven Warden. So, why would a clever man spare the one who had tried to kill him?

"They're ready for you," Alistair said behind her. He backed up a step when she turned around, his hand resting on his sword hilt. His eyes always narrowed when he looked at her, as if her were trying to shrink her down to something small and manageable, something his chantry-caged mind could comprehend. He pivoted out of the way as she moved past him. The Wardens must have been hard pressed, indeed, to count him among their ranks. Still, he was a Warden. And it was better to have one to spare if anything happened to the other.

The Crow stood by the bodies, gazing down at them. Briefly, she wondered what he was thinking. _Probably counting himself among the fortunate for not being laid out next to them, no doubt. _He glanced up and smiled as she sauntered forward. Morrigan knew a predator when she saw one, even if his guild had adopted the name of a carrion feeder. Underneath that lazy look lay a wolf's heart. She wondered if the elven Warden realized what he had accepted into his den.

"Come to pay your respects, my lovely woman?"

She scowled at him. "I came to burn the bodies."

He glanced down, something unreadable flickering through his amber eyes.

"Really?" he murmured. "And why would you do that?"

"Ask the Warden if you wish to know." She motioned off to her left where he approached with Leliana.

"Are they all here?" Darrian asked Zevran when he came up beside them.

"So it appears."

The Warden nodded. "Good, then as soon as Leliana has their names we can begin."

Morrigan slipped far enough away that she wouldn't have to hear the bard prattling on about the Maker. Or worse, listen to that caterwauling she called vocal exercises she claimed she had to do before she could sing. Really, what was all that bother about? All she had to do was open her mouth. If pressed, the witch would admit the woman had a pleasant enough voice. Though, she would never admit she sometimes perched in the trees as an owl, so she could be close enough to hear her sing in the evenings.

In the back of her mind, Morrigan started gathering the power she needed for the spell that would reduce the bodies to ash. Power, too, for a bit of wind to blow the stink of burning flesh away from them. While she readied her spells, she studied Zevran as he gave the names of his dead to the bard, the Warden standing off to one side, his handsome face somber. The man possessed a sensible, pragmatic streak that made his sparing of the assassin understandable, even reasonable, given the limited numbers of their band and what they had to accomplish. Whether their latest member would help or hinder that mission remained to be seen.

**Leliana**

Zevran wore his mask quite well, with a certain sardonic amusement she could well appreciate, while he gave her the names of his dead. But then, he was a Crow, doubtless he'd had ample practice in showing that particular face to the world. If he saw beneath her mask, he gave no sign. All the others of their band knew of a bard's life were stories and hearsay. The Crow would know the harsh reality, but Zevran seemed one inclined to hold things close.

The witch had sauntered away when Zevran approached. He motioned to the bodies of his fellow Crows.

"So, I'm curious as to why the Warden wished me to give you their names. Are you going to compose a song or some such of this battle? " he asked with a trace of irony.

"No, but their names will be included in a memorial."

He tilted his head, his amber eyes studying her. "Indeed. What sort of memorial?"

Leliana fingered the neck of her lute. It would be easy to tell him. Simpler in some ways. But the life of a bard did not incline one to simpler things. Even more then the Crow, her life was defined by subtlety. And she had no wish to even hint at mockery of the deceased. They may have gone into this knowing there was a chance they wouldn't survive, but they still deserved some dignity in death. So, she only smiled and tuned her lute.

"You'll discover soon enough," she said, then turned and walked away to prepare her voice and her mind.

He didn't follow. When she turned around, he still stood by his dead comrades, a thoughtful, puzzled look on his face. She glanced up when Darrian approached her.

"Thank you for singing the funeral prayer," he said softly.

She waved a hand. "You are kind to see it done."

He flushed slightly, then shook his head. "It just doesn't seem right to leave their bodies to rot or be eaten by scavengers. Even if they did try to kill us."

Her eyes slid back to Zevran, still by the corpses, though his gaze was directed outward, somewhere off in the distance.

"Zevran asked me why. I didn't tell him anything. Life is better with some mystery, no?"

Darrian shrugged. "Maybe. He doesn't seem much bothered by their deaths."

It was her turn to shrug. "He may be more bothered than he lets on. He's a Crow. They're taught to bury their feelings."

"You seem to know a lot about them."

She lightly strummed her lute. "One picks up many things as a bard when one travels to so many places. And outside of Ferelden, the Crows are well-known."

The breeze shifted, stirring dust and blood-spattered leaves. Darrian glanced at the sun sliding down the western sky.

"I think we should get started. I want to get back to camp before true night falls."

**Zevran**

I gazed down at the Crows I had brought with me, their bodies neatly laid out on the ground. There was nothing I or anyone else could do for them now. One Crow had survived, an apprentice barely past her mid-teens I had sent back with a sealed letter to inform Master Stefan of where and when I had intended to make the hit. When we failed to return, the master would assume we were dead. Knowing him, he would probably send someone to investigate. The man didn't seem one to leave things to chance.

I wondered why the Warden had asked Sten and Alistair to arrange the dead like this. The scavengers certainly wouldn't care. Why did he?

I turned slightly so I could watch him talking to the pretty bard while still seeming to be looking at the dead. But the Warden and the bard kept their voices low, and the wind blew past me, carrying their words in the other direction. He did glance at me once or twice, but seeing his face at the edge of vision made it hard to read his expression.

Sten secured the last of the saddlebags to one of the horses, while Alistair stood nearby, scowling at me, fingering the hilt of his sword. Curious, that the human Warden wasn't leading this little group. Of course, if he had been I would be laid out next to the others…or perhaps not. I suspected he simply would have looted the battlefield and left us to rot.

I saw little point in lingering by the bodies since I could do nothing for the dead, so I wandered back to Darrian. He motioned to the bags slung over my shoulder.

"Is that everything?"

I nodded. "I prefer to travel light."

It's not like I had planned on returning to Antiva…or anywhere. Well, fate or fortune -take your pick - had certainly made a mockery of that. But then, I had bargained for my life. Why? I still wasn't sure. It wasn't for a pretty face, though the Warden was a handsome man. There was something else at play here, something about him I couldn't quite stick a dagger in that had persuaded me to cling to life.

Morrigan sauntered up to him. "I am ready whenever you need me."

Ready for what I wondered, as he nodded.

"Come, we need to get out of the way," he said and motioned towards a sport several dozen feet in front of him.

I followed him, noting that Sten and Alistair were leading the pack-laden horses out of the ravine and back towards the road that led to camp. Beyond the weapons and armor, all of good quality, we hadn't carried much of value. I supposed the coin he could get for them plus the horses would buy a few weeks of supplies.

Morrigan stepped past us, the air flickering around her, the way it does above a candle flame. The bard had pulled her lute forward and was tuning it, humming softly, as if she were warming up her voice for a performance.

"Leliana used to be a lay sister," the Warden said softly.

My stomach tightened just a little and I turned back to look at the bodies. Maker, he couldn't be intending what I suspected.

Pure and clear, Leliana's voice poured out, wrapped around the chant for the dead. I knew it by heart. I'd been responsible for it being sung often enough.

Power leaped out from Morrigan, flame and wind sweeping over the dead Crows.

My hands tightened on the leather straps of my packs. We'd been hired to kill him and his fellow Warden…and failed. I'd seen him fighting, cutting through the field of battle with beautiful and deadly grace. He killed quickly, cleanly, looted the dead as was his right as victor. Then…he did this. Showed mercy to the dead…as he'd shown it to me.

Morrigan's wind blew the ashes and the smoke of burning away from us.

I closed my eyes while Leliana sang, weaving their names into the verses of the chant that asked for mercy for the dead. A memory from childhood stirred, one I had thought long buried with all the others. One of the male whores in the brothel where I had been born had died one winter's end, taken by a fever that sometimes came when the seasons changed. Amia, one of the whores, had taken the children to the chantry to say a prayer and light a candle for him. _So he can find his way to the Maker, _she'd explained, giving us each a few coppers to buy them from the lay sister. When I was older, I'd thought it just a clever ploy for the chantry to pry a few more coins out of people. Even compassion had its price, I'd thought cynically, believing myself wise for thinking that. I was older now, in experience, if not so much in years.

Leliana's chant ended and I opened my eyes. The dead were now only ashes, blowing away on the wind. The man they had tried to kill had given them a dignity the Crows never would have.

"Come, we need to return," he said, turning away before I could catch more than a glimpse of his face.

I glanced back, thinking I would light a candle for them in the chantry when we passed through a town. It could do no harm.

We turned and headed back to camp.

The sun had already sunk below the tree line, the early evening light throwing long, dark shadows, by the time we returned. I set my bags by the log, then settled on the ground beside them after taking off my armor. The Warden hadn't assigned me any duties, and I thought it wiser to stay out of the way while Sten and Alistair unloaded the horses. Morrigan leaned over the black-iron cook pot suspended above the fire, checking whatever was going to pass for dinner and giving me a fine view of her bosom. She noticed me looking, and scowled before replacing the pot lid and striding away to where her tent was pitched a bit apart from the others. How curious.

Wynne perched on a rock nearby, mending a shirt. The mabari stretched out in front of her watched me intently, his head resting on one of his paws. At least, the beast seemed well-behaved, not running around and barking at every shadow.

Leliana sat on the ground nearby, humming to herself, her head bent over her lute as she replaced a string.

Maker, here I sat, unbound, no one paying much attention to me, the man who had led the ambush against their little group. Habit made me mark their positions. I glanced down at the ground around me, several good-sized rocks were close to hand. Sten and Alistair, as was the witch, were too far away to reach me before I pitched one at both the healer and the bard. A contingency plan I had no intention of carrying out. But it never hurts to be prepared, yes?

I realized, then, that the Warden was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps I was not as ignored as I thought. I reached for a rock, and turned it over, pretending to examine it. A twig cracked behind me, and the mabari raised his head, his eyes intent on something behind me. The Warden stepped over the log on my left side, a small pile of wood cradled in his left arm and carrying a stout branch in his right hand. He glanced down as he moved past, but said nothing to me. Ah, clever man. I wondered how long he had stood behind me, watching. And I'd never sensed him. But I knew a warning when it was given.

He didn't glance back as he laid the wood near the fire. That didn't mean I wasn't being watched.

Morrigan drifted back, inspected the contents of the pot, and declared that dinner was ready. I stayed on the ground near the log while the others helped themselves. The Warden filled two wooden bowls, one for the mabari, I assumed. Then, to my surprise, he came over and held one out to me. For a moment, his eyes locked on mine. Such a dark grey, like clouds at sunset, and flecked with turquoise and emerald. For a moment, I felt myself falling into their depths. Then he glanced away, and I reached for the bowl, fragrant with thyme and onion, a thick chunk of black bread resting on the stew's surface.

He said nothing, just turned around and drifted back to the campfire, then settled by the ex-templar who was wolfing down his dinner as though it might disappear at any moment.

I gazed down at the bread and meat, the bowl warm in my hands. I wasn't sure how to interpret this man, this Warden who blended mercy and death in a way I had never seen. But he seemed a man worth knowing, not something that can be said of many I've met in my line of work. Maker willing, I would have the time to discover him.


	24. Aftermath

_Just a brief peek into the minds of Fenris' and Danal Hawke (my rogue) after their first night together. And their first appearance in my 'Random Bites' universe. Comments/reviews/random thoughts are always welcome. Enjoy!_

* * *

Wind lashed at the windows, howled among the broken eaves, and whistled in the cracks between the ceiling and the outer wall. Fenris stared into the dark shadows flickering around the single candle on the table close to a fire burned down to near embers. He never should have yielded to the hunger he'd seen in Danal's dark eyes, never yielded to the hunger climbing through his own flesh, bursting up from some deep well of need inside his soul. What had he been thinking?

He hadn't, that was the point. Not with his head, anyway. He couldn't remember desire like that; so intense it swept over you like a winter storm. And where had satisfying it left him, but abandoned on the empty shore of his own soul? But his need had gone deeper than mere lust. So had Danal's. Fenris had seen that when the human asked him to stay, offered to help him find a way back to a past the elf wasn't sure he wanted to remember, despite what he'd told the man.

Hidden things couldn't hurt you as long as they stayed hidden. What might creep out of the darkness if he ventured there again?

Fenris slammed his fist against the wall, his breathing ragged and uneven, then he flattened his hand against the dusty plaster. In the dim candlelight, the lyrium lines on his skin seemed to glow ghost-white, tinged with blue, like the breaking edge of a dawn that never came.

What did the human see in him, beyond a slave running from his past? Fenris wondered what he saw in the human. Danal was a good man, a kind man. A man who'd also spent his life running, if for different reasons. So, they had something in common then. But it hardly seemed enough to tie them together, not for very long, anyway.

Fenris stared at the lyrium lines slicing up his palm. What did it mean to love? Did it mean caring for someone to the point that you were willing to put yourself at risk for them? To keep taking the risk of offering comfort when it might be rejected?

He sank to the floor, then leaned his head back against the wall. The feel of soft warm lips and gentle hands against his skin lingered in his flesh. Despite that Danarius had used him for relief, and passed him to others for amusement, it hadn't felt strange to make love to Danal, a human male. There'd been an odd familiarity in it, as if sometime in his past he had known such tenderness. Perhaps, he had. And perhaps, remembering that would be a good thing. But Fenris wasn't sure if he was ready to face that kind of memory, yet. When he did, though, he couldn't think of anyone else he'd rather take that risk with.

He pushed up to his feet, then stirred the fire into embers, scattering them across the iron grate. Sparks danced up, winking out in the darkness, while the coals slowly cooled. He watched them turn ashen grey, hiding the heat that lingered within. Then he turned, picked up the candle, and headed up the stairs.

* * *

Danal groaned and rubbed his eyes. _Oh, that was bloody brilliant, Hawke. 'It wasn't that bad, was it?' _Maybe one of these days he'd learn to keep a leash on his sodding tongue.

He rolled out of bed, and glided to the window. It wasn't raining, but the wind whipped around the house, howling like a mad spirit. It would probably be pouring by morning. At least he'd been able to convince Fenris to fix the holes in his roof, so the elf would have a dry place to live.

He turned back to the bed, and stared at the rumpled section where Fenris had briefly drifted off after they'd made love. Under that cool demeanor –well, cool until the subject of mages and/or his past came up – lay a very passionate man. All fire and heated kisses, and preferring to take the lead. Not that Danal minded that. He was flexible, in more ways than one. And if Fenris wanted to take control of the dance, he was more than willing to follow.

Danal sighed, and slipped back to the bed, settling on the side where the elf had lain. He ran his fingers over the pillow, then picked it up. Traces of herbal scent from whatever soap Fenris used still lingered. Danal buried his nose in the rumpled pillowcase, already missing him.

_Oh, sod it, now I'm acting like a love-sick adolescent._ Of course, being in love made you do things like that, and sent your world tumbling in a happy spin that left you breathless…if it didn't break your heart, first. He knew enough about to love to recognize the real thing when it came along. The thing that lay buried in every lustful glance like a seed buried in the earth waiting for spring. And that was what Fenris was, he suddenly realized. A potential waiting to be born, even if the elf didn't know it, or wasn't sure what to do with, if he did.

Still holding the pillow, Danal gazed out at the vague night shadows beyond the window. He found it hard to picture Fenris as a meek slave, not thinking beyond his master's needs. Stubborn, willful, and not afraid to speak his mind, how had he ever survived?

Danal put the pillow back in place, then lay down, his fingers interlaced behind his head as he gazed at a painting of the local shoreline on the opposite wall. No point in speculating on how Fenris had survived, it only mattered that he had. But there was more to life than just survival. And he wanted more than one night of passion with the man. He wanted a lifetime of such nights. Wouldn't you know it, though? He had finally found someone he was willing to give his heart to, and the man could literally rip it out of his chest.

"Oh, Maker, that's not funny, Hawke," he murmured, laughing anyway.

Carver had demanded once, in a fit of temper over some incident Danal couldn't remember, why he always had to make some smart-ass comment. 'Because life's too short to cry when you can laugh,' he'd told his brother. Carver had thrown up his hands and tramped off. Danal sighed, then let the memory go, putting Carver to rest, at least for the moment.

He stared at the ceiling, remembering Fenris' anguished face lit up by the soft light spilling out of the fireplace. _I can't…I can't_ still echoed in Danal's heart. He'd like to think that there was something he could have said for comfort, but there really wasn't, was there? What kind of words did you dredge up for that kind of pain? For the kind of fear he'd heard in the elf's voice. Those two always seemed to go together, didn't they, fear and pain? Maker knows he'd seen enough of both in the last few years to last the rest of his life. Seeing them in Fenris, all Danal's instincts pushed him toward helping the elf find a way past them.

A log on the fire burned through the middle and collapsed, sending up a shower of tiny sparks. Danal watched it burn down to embers, then turn ashen grey, though a glint of red heat peeked out here and there. From the feel of the night, he knew dawn wasn't far off. He smiled. No matter how dark the night, dawn always came. Always.


	25. Hero

_This fic was inspired by the July prompt (Byronic hero) over on peopleofthedas on dreamwidth. Not sure how close it comes to that, but it does deal with Varric's conception of a hero. Enjoy! And, as always, comment/feedback/random thoughts are always welcome._

* * *

Varric's frown deepened as he scanned the opening lines of his latest adventure tale.

_Throwing caution to the winds, the brave young rogue stormed into the cave, trusting his companions would be close behind. Three days they'd hunted this particular group of maleficarum, a band of dangerous and desperate mages if ever there was one._

"Crap. Total crap," the dwarf muttered, crumpling the paper up with both hands, then tossing it into his small fireplace. Two clichés in the first sentence –possibly three - instead of one this time, three re-writes, and this was the best he could come up with?

"Crap," he said again, watching his latest effort curl up and crumble into dull ash to join its brethren on the bottom of the grate. He rather liked the sound of 'dangerous and desperate,' though. It had certainly been true of that last job hunting apostates. Now, if he could just build a better sentence around it. A better opening paragraph. A better story.

He set the small portable desk to one side, winced as he eased out of the chair, then hobbled over to a bookcase to retrieve another stack of foolscap off the top shelf.

"You're supposed to be in bed…resting," Anders said from the doorway.

Varric turned and waved the sheaf of speckled, unlined paper. "I am resting."

Anders pointed to the bed. Varric settled back in his thickly padded chair near the fire. The apostate shook his head, then pushed the door over before pulling up a chair next to the dwarf.

"Gut wounds are nothing to fool around with. You tear it open and I'm not going to stuff your intestines back inside…again."

He motioned for Varric to lift up his shirt. Sighing, the dwarf complied.

"Why is this taking so long to heal? You're usually faster than this."

"Your intestines got nicked. Oh, and did I forget that dashing slice across your liver? Good thing for you livers regenerate on their own. I just had to nudge it along a bit."

Varric gasped. "Shit, Blondie, watch where you're poking."

The healer kept poking, but the pressure eased up. "Oh, quit whining, it could have been worse."

"Seeing my entrails lying on my lap isn't bad enough?"

"She missed the major blood vessels. Maker alone knows how. If that sell-sword had nicked an artery, you wouldn't be here to complain about my tender care."

Anders closed his eyes, and Varric sighed softly as warmth flooded into his gut. He fancied he could feel the tissues strengthening. Blondie patted his stomach when he finished. "I think that should do it. A few more days, you'll be right as rain."

Varric just nodded, and pulled his shirt down. Anders leaned back, stretching out a long leg. The human had shadows under the shadows around his eyes. He'd been pushing himself hard again. Probably living off stale flatbread and moldy cheese, whatever his patients managed to scrape together for some kind of payment. Maker knows he didn't spend his share of the bounties they received on food, not for himself, anyway. Most of his coin went into equipment and supplies for his clinic.

Anders waved a hand at the paper still in Varric's hand. "What are you working on? Story about Hawke's latest job?"

"Trying to." Varric tossed the sheets onto the table.

"Another heroic adventure?" He didn't even try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, though, to his credit, the healer did wince a bit at the tones.

"People need heroes. Especially in times like these."

Leaning forward, Anders almost spat out his next words. "What people need is to wake up. To take a stand. They need to-"

"Kick the templars in the ass and out of Kirkwall? That's not going to happen."

No matter how many times he saw it, Varric knew he would never get used to the icy blue flash in Ander's eyes when Justice stirred. The healer's hands gripped the arms of his chair as he forced the spirit back to wherever in his mind it resided. Loosing a breath, he leaned back.

"Sorry about that. Haven't got much sleep the last week. Late summer's always a bad time for fevers in Darktown. Lot of accidents, lately, too."

A soft knock caught the attention of both men. Norah toed the door open, and the smell of beef stew and fresh bread drifted across Varric's nose. Anders pulled in a deeper breath as she set down a tray holding two large bowls, a round of poppy-seed bread, garlic butter, and a jug of ale on the table.

"Saw you had some company," she said, smiling at Anders. "You want more, just holler." Then she turned and glided away, shutting the door behind her.

Anders pointed at the stew, thick with chunks of carrots and potatoes, cubes of browned beef speckled with barley and bits of celery leaf. Here and there, a sprig of fresh thyme peeked out between the potatoes.

"That…was made here?" He took another sniff. "And is that really beef?"

"It'd better be, considering what I paid for it."

Varric set a bowl in front of each of them, then started slicing up the bread.

Anders leaned over his serving. "Oh, Maker, I can't remember the last time I had beef."

"Help yourself. If Norah's feeling generous, I wouldn't turn down a free meal." No need, of course, to mention that her generosity had been helped along by an extra ten silver in her pocket.

"I can't believe this was made here," the healer said around a mouthful of stew.

Varric handed him a slice of bread slathered with butter. "You ever hear it wasn't polite to talk with your mouth full, Blondie?"

"Hmph?" Anders looked up from his stew, and waved his hand.

Chuckling, Varric picked up his spoon. "You didn't think I took rooms here just for the atmosphere, did you?" He grinned. "Helen is the best kept secret in Lowtown."

"Apparently. Can we bribe her to cook on Wicked Grace nights?"

Varric sighed. "Not like I haven't tried. But she's strictly daytime. Unfortunately, by the time you, Hawke, and the rest wander in, whatever she's cooked up for the day is long gone."

He tucked into his own lunch then, and through a second bowl for each, the only sounds in the dwarf's neat rooms were munching and slurping.

After Norah cleared the lunch dishes, Anders leaned back, sighed contentedly and patted his stomach. "Maker, that was good. Too bad Pounce wasn't here. He always liked a good beef stew." He smiled. "Quite a civilized beast."

He gazed into the fire then, sipping his ale, his eyes taking on that hazy look of a man rummaging through his memories, the good ones. After a moment, his eyes drooped, and he soon fell asleep, snoring softly.

Varric eased over and slipped Anders half-full cup out of his hands, then set it on the table. Once back in his chair, the dwarf glanced down at his belly, then lifted his shirt and examined the thin white scar that stretched across his gut just below his navel. He hadn't intended to get so close to the front of the fighting, but battles had a way of shifting unexpectedly.

Anders had rushed forward, dodging lightning bolts and a swing from a broadsword when Varric had crumpled to the cavern floor, watching his guts spill out of the long slit in his belly. The mercenary responsible for that wound had staggered back a second later, her sword raised for a downward stroke, staring at her still-beating heart Fenris had just dropped on the ground at her feet. A few moments later, she joined it. After that, Varric had seen and heard only Anders, his back dangerously exposed, ripping to shreds one of the dwarf's favorite shirts, and then stuffing his guts back inside while the battle raged on around them.

The current fashion for heroes was tall and dark, like Hawke. Well, Hawke's complexion was more toward the creamy side, but with black hair and eyes as deep as a summer night, he suited most people's tastes well enough. He wasn't broody, though Fenris did enough of that for several people. But throw in charismatic, perceptive, intelligent, and a generous dash of flippant humor, the man was a lot closer to the popular ideal than a troubled apostate dealing with spirit possession. Which was a damn shame, really; since -except for the charismatic part - Anders shared many of Hawke's qualities.

Varric sighed and tucked his shirt back into his trousers. A mage could never, no matter how brave or dedicated, be the hero of a story. And people, hungry for distraction, weren't interested in reading about someone fighting disease and despair in a place even folk in Lowtown liked to pretend didn't exist. Still, that didn't mean he couldn't write about it. Some things you wrote for yourself, because the story needed to be told even if few people wanted to read it.

Varric pulled his small, portable desk back onto his lap and picked up a sheet of paper.

"_Look for the lit lantern," Lirene had told them. In the dank miasma of the old twisting tunnels, it shone like a beacon. A reminder that even in this dark place, hope still existed._

Varric smiled.


End file.
